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CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 


"Contact" 
CAPTAIN  ALAN  BOTT,  M.  C. 

OF  THE  BRITISH  ROYAL  FLYING  CORPS 


CAVALRY  OF  THE 
CLOUDS 


BY 

"CONTACT" 

(Capt.  Alah  Bott,  M.C.) 


With  an  introduction  by 
Major-General  W.  S.  BRANCKEB 

(Deputy  Director-General  of 
Military  Aeronautics) 


New  York 

GROSSET    &   DUNLAP 

Publishers 


Copyright,  191 7,  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

All  rights  reserved, 

including  thai  of  translation  into  foreign  languages ■ 

including  the  Scandinavian 


G0* 


DEDICATED 

TO 

THE  FALLEN  OF  UMPTY  SQUADRON,  R.F.C. 

JUNE-DECEMBER  1916 


\k\J  \'.m^  irVii  W««L  y~v     A 


*£"&& 


PREFACE 

Of  the  part  played  by  machines  of  war  in 
this  war  of  machinery  the  wider  public  has 
but  a  vague  knowledge.  Least  of  all  does  it 
study  the  specialised  functions  of  army  air- 
craft. Very  many  people  show  mild  interest 
in  the  daily  reports  of  so  many  German 
aeroplanes  destroyed,  so  many  driven  down, 
so  many  of  ours  missing,  and  enraged  in- 
terest in  the  reports  of  bomb  raids  on  British 
towns;  but  of  aerial  observation,  the  main 
raison  d'etre  of  flying  at  the  front,  they  own 
to  nebulous  ideas. 

As  an  extreme  case  of  this  haziness  over 
matters  aeronautic  I  will  quote  the  lay  ques- 
tion, asked  often  and  in  all  seriousness:  "Can 
an  aeroplane  stand  still  in  the  air?"  An- 
other surprising  point  of  view  is  illustrated 
by  the  home-on-leave  experience  of  a  pilot 
belonging  to  my  present  squadron.  His 
lunch  companion — a  charming  lady — said  she 


viii  PREFACE 

supposed  he  lived  mostly  on  cold  food  while 
in  France. 

"Oh  no,"  replied  the  pilot,  "it's  much  the 
same  as  yours,  only  plainer  and  tougher." 

"Then  you  do  come  down  for  meals,"  de- 
duced the  lady.  Only  those  who  have  flown 
on  active  service  can  fully  relish  the  comic 
savour  of  a  surmise  that  the  Flying  Corps 
in  France  remain  in  the  air  all  day  amid  all 
weathers,  presumably  picnicking,  between 
flights,  off  sandwiches,  cold  chicken,  pork 
pies,  and  mineral  waters. 

These  be  far-fetched  examples,  but  they 
serve  to  emphasise  a  general  misconception 
of  the  conditions  under  which  the  flying 
services  carry  out  their  work  at  the  big  war. 
I  hope  that  this  my  book,  written  for  the 
most  part  at  odd  moments  during  a  few 
months  of  training  in  England,  will  suggest 
to  civilian  readers  a  rough  impression  of  such 
conditions.  To  Flying  Officers  who  honour 
me  by  comparing  the  descriptions  with  their 
own  experiences,  I  offer  apology  for  whatever 
they  may  regard  as  "hot  air,"  while  sub- 
mitting in  excuse  that  the  narratives  are 
founded  on  unexa  operated  fact,  as  any  one 


PREFACE  ix 

who  served  with  Umpty  Squadron  through 
the  Battle  of  the  Somme  can  bear  witness. 

I  have  expressed  a  hope  that  the  chapters 
and  letters  will  suggest  a  rough  impression 
of  work  done  by  R.F.C.  pilots  and  observers 
in  France.  A  complete  impression  they  could 
not  suggest,  any  more  than  the  work  of  a 
Brigade-Major  could  be  regarded  as  repre- 
sentative of  that  of  the  General  Staff.  The 
Flying-Corps-in-the-Field  is  an  organisation 
great  in  numbers  and  varied  in  functions. 
Many  separate  duties  are  allotted  to  it,  ana 
each  separate  squadron,  according  to  its  type 
of  machine,  confines  itself  to  two  or  three  of 
these  tasks. 

The  book,  then,  deals  only  with  the  squad- 
ron to  which  I  belonged  last  year,  and  it  does 
not  pretend  to  be  descriptive  of  the  Flying 
Corps  as  a  whole.  Ours  was  a  crack  squad- 
ron in  its  day,  and,  as  General  Brancker  has 
mentioned  in  his  Introduction,  it  held  a 
melancholy  record  in  the  number  of  its  losses. 
Umpty's  Squadron's  casualties  during  August, 
September,  and  October  of  1916  still  con- 
stitute a  record  for  the  casualties  of  any  one 
flying    squadron   during    any    three    months 


x  PREFACE 

since  the  war  began.  Once  eleven  of  our 
machines  were  posted  as  "missing"  in  the 
space  of  two  days — another  circumstance 
which  has  fortunately  never  yet  been  equalled 
in  R.F.C.  history.  It  was  a  squadron  that 
possessed  excellent  pilots,  excellent  achieve- 
ments, and  the  herewith  testimonial  in  a 
letter  found  on  a  captured  German  airman, 
with  reference  to  the  machine  of  which  we 
then  had  the  Flying  Corps  monopoly:  "The 
most-to-be-feared  of  British  machines  is  the 

S ." 

Our  duties  were  long  reconnaissance,  of- 
fensive patrols  around  German  air  country, 
occasional  escort  for  bombing  craft,  and 
occasional  photography.  I  have  but  touched 
upon  other  branches  of  army  aeronautics; 
though  often,  when  we  passed  different  types 
of  machine,  I  would  compare  their  job  to 
ours  and  wonder  if  it  were  more  pleasant. 
Thousands  of  feet  below  us,  for  example, 
were  the  artillery  craft,  which  darted  back- 
ward and  forward  across  the  lines  as  from 
their  height  of  vantage  they  ranged  and 
registered  for  the  guns.  On  push  days  these 
same  buses  were  to  be  seen  lower  still,  well 


PREFACE  xi 

within  range  of  machine-gun  bullets  from  the 
ground,  as  they  crawled  and  nosed  over  the 
line  of  advance  and  kept  intelligent  contact 
between  far-ahead  attacking  infantry  and  the 
rear.  Above  the  tangled  network  of  enemy 
defences  roved  the  line  photography  machines, 
which  provided  the  Staff  with  accurate  sur- 
vey maps  of  the  Boche  defences.  Parties  of 
bombers  headed  eastward,  their  lower  wings 
laden  with  eggs  for  delivery  at  some  factory, 
aerodrome,  headquarter,  railway  junction,  or 
ammunition  dump.  Dotted  everywhere, 
singly  or  in  formations  of  two,  three,  four,  or 
six,  were  those  aristocrats  of  the  air,  the 
single-seater  fighting  scouts.  These  were  en- 
vied for  their  advantages.  They  were  com- 
paratively fast,  they  could  turn,  climb,  and 
stunt  better  and  quicker  than  any  two-seater, 
and  their  petrol-tanks  held  barely  enough  for 
two  hours,  so  that  their  shows  were  soon  com- 
pleted. All  these  varied  craft  had  their  sep- 
arate functions,  difficulties,  and  dangers.  Two 
things  only  were  shared  by  all  of  us — dodging 
Archie  and  striving  to  strafe  the  Air  Hun. 

Since  those  days  flying  conditions  on  the 
Western  Front  have  been  much  changed  by 


xii  PREFACE 

the  whirligig  of  aeronautical  development. 
All  things  considered,  the  flying  officer  is 
now  given  improved  opportunities.  Air 
fighting  has  grown  more  intense,  but  the 
machines  in  use  are  capable  of  much  better 
performance.  The  latest  word  in  single- 
seater  scouts,  which  I  am  now  flying,  can 
reach  22,000  feet  with  ease;  and  it  has  a 
maximum  climb  greater  by  a  third,  and  a 
level  speed  greater  by  a  sixth,  than  our  best 
scout  of  last  year.  The  good  old  one-and-a- 
half  strutter  (a  fine  bus  of  its  period),  on 
which  we  used  to  drone  our  way  around  the 
150-mile  reconnaissance,  has  disappeared  from 
active  service.  The  nerve-edging  job  of 
long  reconnaissance  is  now  done  by  more 
modern  two-seaters,  high-powered,  fast,  and 
reliable,  which  can  put  up  a  fight  on  equal 
terms  with  anything  they  are  likely  to  meet. 
The  much-discussed  B.E.,  after  a  three-year 
innings,  has  been  replaced  for  the  most  part 
by  a  better-defended  and  more  satisfactory 
artillery  bus.  The  F.E.  and  de  Haviland 
pushers  have  likewise  become  obsolete.  The 
scouts  which  we  thought  invincible  last  au- 
tumn are  badly  outclassed  by  later  types. 


PREFACE  xiii 

For  the  rest,  the  Flying  Corps  in  France 
has  grown  enormously  in  size  and  im- 
portance. The  amount  of  work  credited  to 
each  branch  of  it  has  nearly  doubled  during 
the  past  year — reconnaissance,  artillery  ob- 
servation, photography,  bombing,  contact 
patrol,  and,  above  all,  fighting.  Air  scraps 
have  tended  more  and  more  to  become 
battles  between  large  formations.  But  most 
significant  is  the  rapid  increase  in  attacks 
by  low-flying  aeroplanes  on  ground  personnel 
and  materiel,  a  branch  which  is  certain  to 
become  an  important  factor  in  the  winning 
of  the  war. 

And  this  whirlwind  growth  will  continue. 
The  world  at  large,  as  distinct  from  the 
small  world  of  aeronautics,  does  not  realize 
that  aircraft  will  soon  become  predominant 
as  a  means  of  war,  any  more  than  it  reckons 
with  the  subsequent  era  of  universal  flight, 
when  designers,  freed  from  the  subordina- 
tion of  all  factors  to  war  requirements,  will 
give  birth  to  machines  safe  as  motor-cars  or 
ships,  and  capable  of  carrying  heavy  freights 
for  long  distances  cheaply  and  quickly. 
Speaking   of   an   average   pilot   and   a   noD- 


xiv  PREFACE 

expert  enthusiast,  I  do  not  believe  that  even 
our  organisers  of  victory  are  yet  aware  of 
the  tremendous  part  which  aircraft  can  be 
made  to  take  in  the  necessary  humbling  of 
Germany. 

Without  taking  into  account  the  limitless 
reserve  of  American  aerial  potentiality,  it  is 
clear  that  within  a  year  the  Allies  will  have  at 
their  disposal  many  thousands  of  war  aero- 
planes. A  proper  apportionment  of  such  of 
them  as  can  be  spared  for  offensive  purposes 
could  secure  illimitable  results.  If  for  no  other 
cause  it  would  shorten  the  war  by  its  effect 
on  civilian  nerves.  We  remember  the  hys- 
terical outburst  of  rage  occasioned  by  the 
losses  consequent  upon  a  daylight  raid  on 
London  of  some  fifteen  machines,  though  the 
public  had  become  inured  to  the  million 
military  casualties  since  1914.  "  What,  then, 
would  be  the  effect  on  German  war-weari- 
ness if  giant  raids  on  fortified  towns  by  a 
hundred  or  so  allied  machines  were  of  weekly 
occurrence?  And  what  would  be  the  effect 
on  our  own  public  if  giant  raids  on  British 
towns  were  of  weekly  occurrence?  Let  us 
make  the  most  of  our  aerial  chances,  and  so 


PREFACE  xv 

forestall  betrayal  by  war-weariness,  civilian 
pacifism,  self-centred  fools,  and  strange 
people. 

From  an  army  point  of  view  the  probable 
outcome  of  an  extensive  aerial  offensive 
would  be  still  greater.  Well-organised  bomb 
raids  on  German  aerodromes  during  the  night 
and  early  morning  have  several  times  kept 
the  sky  clear  of  hostile  aircraft  during  the 
day  of  an  important  advance.  *  If  this  be 
achieved  with  our  present  limited  number  of 
bombing  machines,  much  more  will  be  pos- 
sible when  we  have  double  or  treble  the 
supply.  Imagine  the  condition  of  a  par- 
ticular sector  of  the  advanced  lines  of  com- 
munication if  it  were  bombed  every  day  by 
scores  of  aeroplanes.  Scarcely  any  move- 
ment would  be  possible  until  bad  weather 
made  the  attacks  non-continuous;  and  few 
supply  depots  in  the  chosen  area  would 
afterwards  remain  serviceable.  Infantry  and 
artillery  dependent  upon  this  district  of 
approach  from  the  rear  would  thus  be  de- 
prived of  essential  supplies. 

Apart  from  extensive  bombing,  an  air 
offensive  of  at  least  equal  value  may  happen 


xvi  PREFACE 

in  the  form  of  machine-gun  attacks  from 
above.  To-day  nothing  seems  to  panic  the 
Boche  more  than  a  sudden  swoop  by  a  low- 
flying  aeroplane,  generous  of  bullets,  as 
those  of  us  who  have  tried  this  game  have 
noticed.  No  German  trench,  no  emplace- 
ment, no  battery  position,  no  line  of  trans- 
port is  safe  from  the  R.F.C.  Vickers  and 
Lewis  guns;  and  retaliation  is  difficult  be- 
cause of  the  speed  and  erratic  movement 
of  the  attacking  aeroplane.  Little  imagina- 
tion is  necessary  to  realise  the  damage, 
moral  and  material,  which  could  be  inflicted 
on  any  selected  part  of  the  front  if  it  were 
constantly  scoured  by  a  few  dozen  of  such 
guerilla  raiders.  No  movement  could  take 
place  during  the  daytime,  and  nobody  could 
remain  in  the  open  for  longer  than  a  few 
minutes. 

The  seemingly  far  -  fetched  speculations 
above  are  commonplace  enough  in  the  judg- 
ment of  aeronautical  people  of  far  greater 
authority  and  experience  than  I  can  claim. 
But  they  could  only  be  brought  to  material- 
isation by  an  abnormal  supply  of  modern 
aeroplanes,  especially  the  chaser  craft  neces- 


PREFACE  xvii 

sary  to  keep  German  machines  from  inter- 
ference. Given  the  workshop  effort  to 
provide  this  supply,  French  and  British 
pilots  can  be  relied  upon  to  make  the  most 
of  it.  I  am  convinced  that  war  flying  will 
be  organised  as  a  means  to  victory;  but  as 
my  opinion  is  of  small  expert  value  I  do  not 
propose  to  discuss  how  it  might  be  done. 
This  much,  however,  I  will  predict.  When, 
in  some  nine  months*  time — if  the  gods 
permit — a  sequel  to  the  present  book  ap- 
pears, dealing  with  this  year's  personal  ex- 
periences above  the  scene  of  battle,  the 
aerial  factor  will  be  well  on  the  way  to  the 
position  of  war  predominance  to  which  it  is 
destined. 

CONTACT. 

Fbance,  1917. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface vii 

Introduction xxi 

CHAPTER 

I.    Flying  to  France 3 

II.    The  Day's  Work   27 

III.  A  Summer  Joy-Ride 49 

IV.  Spying  Out  the  Land 72 

V.    There  and  Back 90 

VI.    A  Cloud  Reconnaissance  117 

VII.     Ends  and  Odds 140 

VIII.    The  Daily  Round 170 

LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME 

I.    Looking  for  Trouble 195 

II.     "One  of  Our  Machines  is  Missing".  . .  .  205 

III.  A  Bomb  Raid 213 

IV.  Spying  by  Snapshot 220 

V.    The  Archibald  Family 235 

VI.    Battles  and  Bullets  243 

VII.    Back  in  Blighty 252 


INTRODUCTION 

By  Major-General  W.  S.  BRANCKER 

(Deputy  Director-General  of  Military  Aeronautics) 

Every  day  adds  something  to  the  achieve- 
ments of  aviation,  brings  to  light  yet  an- 
other of  its  possibilities,  or  discloses  more 
vividly  its  inexhaustible  funds  of  adventure 
and  romance. 

This  volume,  one  of  the  first  books  about 
fighting  in  the  air,  is  written  by  a  fight- 
ing airman.  The  author  depicts  the  daily 
life  of  the  flying  officer  in  France,  simply 
and  with  perfect  truth;  indeed  he  de- 
scribes heroic  deeds  with  such  moderation 
and  absence  of  exaggeration  that  the  reader 
will  scarcely  realise  that  these  stories  are 
part  of  the  annals  of  a  squadron  which 
for  a  time  held  a  record  in  the  heaviness 
of  its  losses. 

The  importance  of  the  aerial  factor  in  the 
prosecution  of  the  war  grows  apace.  The 
Royal  Flying  Corps,  from  being  an  unde- 
pendable  and  weakly  assistant  to  the  other 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

arms,  is  now  absolutely  indispensable,  and 
has  attained  a  position  of  almost  predomi- 
nant importance.  If  the  war  goes  on  with- 
out decisive  success  being  obtained  by  our 
armies  on  the  earth,  it  seems  almost  in- 
evitable that  we  must  depend  on  offensive 
action  in  the  air  and  from  the  air  to  bring 
us  victory. 

We  in  London  have  had  some  slight 
personal  experience  of  what  a  very  weak 
and  moderately  prosecuted  aerial  offensive 
can  accomplish.  With  the  progress  of  the 
past  three  years  before  us,  it  needs  little 
imagination  to  visualise  the  possibilities  of 
such  an  offensive,  even  in  one  year's  time; 
and  as  each  succeeding  year  adds  to  the 
power  of  rival  aerial  fleets,  the  thought  of 
war  will  become  almost  impossible. 

War  has  been  the  making  of  aviation; 
let  us  hope  that  aviation  will  be  the  de- 
struction of  war. 

W.  S.  BRANCKER. 

August  1,  1017. 


CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 


CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 
CHAPTER  I 

FLYING   TO   FRANCE 

All  units  of  the  army  have  known  it,  the 
serio-comedy  of  waiting  for  embarkation 
orders. 

After  months  of  training  the  twelvetieth 
battalion,  battery,  or  squadron  is  almost 
ready  for  a  plunge  into  active  service.  Then 
comes,  from  a  source  which  cannot  be  trailed, 
a  mysterious  Date.  The  orderly  -  room 
whispers:  "June  the  fifteenth";  the  senior 
officers'  quarters  murmur:  "France  on  June 
the  fifteenth";  the  mess  echoes  to  the  tidings 
spread  by  the  subaltern  -  who  -  knows : 
"We're  for  it  on  June  the  fifteenth,  me  lad"; 
through  the  men's  hutments  the  word  is 
spread:  "It's  good-bye  to  this  blinking  hole 
on  June  the  fifteenth";  the  Home  receives  a 
letter  and  confides  to  other  homes:  "Reg- 
inald's lot  are  going  to  the  war  on  June  the 
fifteenth";  finally,  if  we  are  to  believe  Mr. 

3 


4         CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS. 

William  le  Queux,  the  Military  Intelligence 
Department  of  the  German  Empire  dockets 
a  report:  "Das  zwolfzigste  Battalion  (Bat- 
terie  oder  Escadrille)  geht  am  15  Juni  nach 
Frankreich." 

June  opens  with  an  overhaul  of  officers 
and  men.  Last  leave  is  distributed,  the 
doctor  examines  everybody  by  batches, 
backward  warriors  are  worried  until  they 
become  expert,  the  sergeant-major  polishes 
his  men  on  the  grindstone  of  discipline, 
the  CO.  indents  for  a  draft  to  complete 
establishment,  an  inspection  is  held  by  an 
awesome  general.  Except  for  the  mobilis- 
ation stores  everything  is  complete  by  June 
10. 

But  there  is  still  no  sign  of  the  wanted 
stores  on  the  Date,  and  June  16  finds  the 
unit  still  in  the  same  blinking  hole,  wherever 
that  may  be.  The  days  drag  on,  and  Date 
the  second  is  placed  on  a  pedestal. 

"Many  thanks  for  an  extra  fortnight  in 
England,"  says  the  subaltern  -  who  -  knows; 
"we're  not  going  till  June  the  twenty- 
seventh." 

The  adjutant,  light  duty,  is  replaced  by 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  5 

an  adjutant,  general  service.  Mobilisation 
stores  begin  to  trickle  into  the  quarter- 
master's reservoir.  But  on  June  27  the 
stores  are  far  from  ready,  and  July  6  is 
miraged  as  the  next  Date.  This  time  it 
looks  like  business.  The  war  equipment  is 
completed,  except  for  the  identity  discs. 

On  July  4  a  large  detachment  departs, 
after  twelve  hours'  notice,  to  replace  casual- 
ties in  France.  Those  remaining  in  the 
now  incomplete  unit  grow  wearily  sarcastic. 
More  last  leave  is  granted.  The  camp  is 
given  over  to  rumour.  An  orderly,  deliver- 
ing a  message  to  the  CO.  (formerly  stationed 
in  India)  at  the  latter's  quarters,  notes  a 
light  cotton  tunic  and  two  sun-helmets.  Sun- 
helmets?  Ah,  somewhere  East,  of  course. 
The  men  tell  each  other  forthwith  that  their 
destination  has  been  changed  to  Mesopo- 
tamia. 

A  band  of  strangers  report  in  place  of  the 
draft  that  went  to  France,  and  in  them  the 
N.C.O.'s  plant  esprit  de  corps  and  the  fear  of 
God.  The  missing  identity  discs  arrive,  and 
a  fourth  Date  is  fixed — July  21.  And  the 
dwellers  in  the  blinking  hole,  having  been 


6        CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

wolfed  several  times,  are  sceptical,  and  treat 
the  latest  report  as  a  bad  joke. 

"My  dear  man,"  remarks  the  subaltern- 
who-knows,  "it's  only  some  more  hot  air.  I 
never  believed  in  the  other  dates,  and  I  don't 
believe  in  this.  If  there's  one  day  of  the 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  when  we  shan't 
go,  it's  July  the  twenty-first." 

And  at  dawn  on  July  21  the  battalion, 
battery,  or  squadron  moves  unobtrusively  to 
a  port  of  embarkation  for  France. 

Whereas  in  most  branches  of  the  army 
the  foundation  of  this  scaffolding  of  post- 
ponement is  indistinct  except  to  the  second- 
sighted  Staff,  in  the  case  of  the  Flying  Corps 
it  is  definitely  based  on  that  uncertain  quan- 
tity, the  supply  of  aeroplanes.  The  organi- 
sation of  personnel  is  not  a  difficult  task,  for 
all  are  highly  trained  beforehand.  The  pilots 
have  passed  their  tests  and  been  decorated 
with  wings,  and  the  mechanics  have  already 
learned  their  separate  trades  as  riggers,  fitters, 
carpenters,  sailmakers,  and  the  like.  The 
only  training  necessary  for  the  pilot  is  to  fly 
as  often  as  possible  on  the  type  of  bus  he 
will   use  in  France,   and  to  benefit  by  the 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  7 

experience  of  the  flight-conimanders,  who  as 
a  rule  have  spent  a  hundred  or  two  hours 
over  Archie  and  the  enemy  lines.  As  re- 
gards the  mechanics,  the  quality  of  their 
skilled  work  is  tempered  by  the  technical 
sergeant-major,  who  knows  most  things  about 
an  aeroplane,  and  the  quality  of  their  be- 
haviour by  the  disciplinary  sergeant-major, 
usually  an  ex-regular  with  a  lively  talent  for 
blasting. 

The  machines  comprise  a  less  straight- 
forward problem.  The  new  service  squadron 
is  probably  formed  to  fly  a  recently  adopted 
type  of  aeroplane,  of  which  the  early  pro- 
duction in  quantities  is  hounded  by  difficulty. 
The  engine  and  its  parts,  the  various  sec- 
tions of  the  machine  itself,  the  guns,  the 
synchronising  gear,  all  these  are  made  in 
separate  factories,  after  standardisation,  and 
must  then  be  co-ordinated  before  the  craft 
is  ready  for  its  test.  If  the  output  of  any 
one  part  fall  below  what  was  expected,  the 
whole  is  kept  waiting;  and  invariably  the 
quantity  or  quality  of  output  is  at  first 
below  expectation  in  some  particular.  Add- 
ing to  the  delays  of  supply  others  due  to 


8        CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  more  urgent  claims  of  squadrons  at  the 
front  for  machines  to  replace  those  lost  or 
damaged,  it  can  easily  be  seen  that  a  new 
squadron  will  have  a  succession  of  Dates. 

Even  when  the  machines  are  ready,  and 
the  transport  leaves  with  stores,  ground- 
officers,  and  mechanics,  the  period  of  post- 
ponement is  not  ended.  All  being  well,  the 
pilots  will  fly  their  craft  to  France  on  the 
day  after  their  kit  departs  with  the  trans- 
port. But  the  day  after  produces  impossible 
weather,  as  do  the  five  or  six  days  that  fol- 
low. One  takes  advantage  of  each  of  these 
set-backs  to  pay  a  further  farewell  visit  to 
one's  dearest  or  nearest,  according  to  where 
the  squadron  is  stationed,  until  at  the  last 
the  dearest  or  nearest  says:  "Good-bye.  I 
do  hope  you'll  have  a  safe  trip  to  France 
to-morrow  morning.  You'll  come  and  see 
me  again  to-morrow  evening,  won't  you?" 

At  last  a  fine  morning  breaks  the  spell  of 
dud  weather,  and  the  pilots  fly  away;  but 
lucky  indeed  is  the  squadron  that  reaches 
France  without  delivering  over  part  of  its 
possessions  to  that  aerial  highwayman  the 
forced  landing. 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  9 

It  was  at  an  aerodrome  forty  minutes 
distant  from  London  that  we  patiently- 
waited  for  flying  orders.  Less  than  the 
average  delay  was  expected,  for  two  flights 
of  the  squadron  were  already  on  the  Somme, 
and  we  of  the  third  flight  were  to  join  them 
immediately  we  received  our  full  comple- 
ment of  war  machines.  These,  in  those  days, 
were  to  be  the  latest  word  in  fighting  two- 
seaters  of  the  period.  Two  practice  buses 
had  been  allotted  to  us,  and  on  them  the 
pilots  were  set  to  perform  landings,  split- 
"air"  turns,  and  stunts  likely  to  be  useful 
in  a  scrap.  For  the  rest,  we  sorted  ourselves 
out,  which  pilot  was  to  fly  with  which  observ- 
er, and  improved  the  machines'  accessories. 

An  inspiration  suggested  to  the  flight- 
commander,  who  although  an  ex  -  Civil 
Servant  was  a  man  of  resource,  that  mir- 
rors of  polished  steel,  as  used  on  the  handle- 
bars of  motor-cycles,  to  give  warning  of 
roadcraft  at  the  rear,  might  be  valuable  in 
an  aeroplane.  Forthwith  he  screwed  one  to 
the  sloping  half -strut  of  his  top  center-sec- 
tion. The  trial  was  a  great  success,  and  we 
bought  six  such  mirrors,  an  investment  which 


10      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

was  to  pay  big  dividends  in  many  an  air  flight. 
Next  the  flight-commander  made  up  his 
mind  to  bridge  the  chasm  of  difficult  com- 
munication between  pilot  and  observer.  For- 
merly, in  two-seaters  with  the  pilot's  seat  in 
front,  a  message  could  only  be  delivered  on 
a  slip  of  paper  or  by  shutting  off  the  engine, 
so  that  one's  voice  could  be  heard;  the  loss  of 
time  in  each  case  being  ill  afforded  when 
Huns  were  near.  An  experiment  with  a 
wide  speaking-tube,  similar  to  those  through 
which  a  waiter  in  a  Soho  restaurant  demands 
cotelettes  milaneses  from  an  underground 
kitchen,  had  proved  that  the  engine's  roar 
was  too  loud  for  distinct  transmission  by 
this  means.  We  made  a  mouthpiece  and  a 
sound-box  earpiece,  and  tried  them  on  tubes 
of  every  make  and  thickness;  but  whenever 
the  engine  was  at  work  the  words  sounded 
indistinct  as  words  sung  in  English  Opera. 
One  day  a  speedometer  behaved  badly,  and 
a  mechanic  was  connecting  a  new  length  of 
the  rubber  pitot-tubing  along  which  the  air 
is  sucked  from  a  wingtip  to  operate  the 
instrument.  Struck  with  an  idea,  the  pilot 
fitted   mouthpiece  and   earpiece   to   a  stray 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  11 

piece  of  the  tubing,  and  took  to  the  air  with 
his  observer.  The  pair  conversed  easily  and 
pleasantly  all  the  way  to  10,000  feet.  The 
problem  was  solved,  and  ever  afterwards 
pilot  and  observer  were  able  to  warn  and 
curse  each  other  in  mid-air  without  waste  of 
time.  The  high  -  powered  two  -  seaters  of 
to-day  are  supplied  with  excellent  speaking- 
tubes  before  they  leave  the  factories;  but 
we,  who  were  the  first  to  use  a  successful 
device  of  this  kind  on  active  service,  owed 
its  introduction  to  a  chance  idea. 

One  by  one  our  six  war  machines  arrived 
and  were  allotted  to  their  respective  pilots. 
Each  man  treated  his  bus  as  if  it  were  an 
only  child.  If  another  pilot  were  detailed 
to  fly  it  the  owner  would  watch  the  per- 
formance jealously,  and  lurid  indeed  was  the 
subsequent  talk  if  an  outsider  choked  the 
carburettor,  taxied  the  bus  on  the  switch,  or 
otherwise  did  something  likely  to  reduce  the 
efficiency  of  engine  or  aeroplane.  On  the 
whole,  however,  the  period  of  waiting  was 
dull,  so  that  we  welcomed  comic  relief  pro- 
vided by  the  affair  of  the  Jabberwocks. 

The   first   three   machines   delivered   from 


12       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  Rafborough  depot  disappointed  us  in 
one  particular.  The  movable  mounting  for 
the  observer's  gun  in  the  rear  cockpit  was  a 
weird  contraption  like  a  giant  catapult.  It 
occupied  a  great  deal  of  room,  was  stiff- 
moving,  reduced  the  speed  by  about  five 
miles  an  hour  owing  to  head  resistance, 
refused  to  be  slewed  round  sideways  for 
sighting  at  an  angle,  and  constantly  collided 
with  the  observer's  head.  We  called  it  the 
Christmas  Tree,  the  Heath  Robinson,  the 
Jabberwock,  the  Ruddy  Limit,  and  names 
unprintable.  The  next  three  buses  were 
fitted  with  Scarff  mountings,  which  were  as 
satisfactory  as  the  Jabberwocks  were  un- 
satisfactory. 

Then,  late  in  the  evening,  one  of  the  new 
craft  was  crashed  beyond  repair.  At  early 
dawn  a  pilot  and  his  observer  left  their  beds, 
walked  through  the  rain  to  the  aerodrome, 
and  sneaked  to  the  flight  shed.  They  re- 
turned two  hours  later,  hungry,  dirty,  and 
flushed  with  suppressed  joy.  After  break- 
fast we  found  that  the  crashed  bus  had  lost 
a  Scarff  mounting,  and  the  bus  manned  by 
the  early  risers  had  found  one.     The  gar- 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  13 

goyle  shape  of  a  discarded  Jabberwock 
sprawled  on  the  floor. 

At  lunch-time  another  pilot  disappeared 
with  his  observer  and  an  air  of  determina- 
tion. When  the  shed  was  opened  for  the 
afternoon's  work  the  Jabberwock  had  been 
replaced  on  the  machine  of  the  early  risers, 
and  the  commandeered  Scarff  was  affixed 
neatly  to  the  machine  of  the  quick-lunchers. 
While  the  two  couples  slanged  each  other  a 
third  pilot  and  observer  sought  out  the  flight- 
commander,  and  explained  why  they  were 
entitled  to  the  disputed  mounting.  The 
pilot,  the  observer  pointed  out,  was  the 
senior  pilot  of  the  three;  the  observer,  the 
pilot  pointed  out,  was  the  senior  observer. 
Was  it  not  right,  therefore,  that  they  should 
be  given  preferential  treatment?  The  flight- 
commander  agreed,  and  by  the  time  the 
early-risers  and  quick-lunchers  had  settled 
their  quarrel  by  the  spin  of  a  coin,  the  Scarff 
had  found  a  fourth  and  permanent  home. 

The  two  remaining  Jabberwocks  became 
an  obsession  with  their  unwilling  owners, 
who  hinted  darkly  at  mutiny  when  told  that 
no  more  Scarff s  could  be  obtained,  the  Naval 


14       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

Air  Service  having  contracted  for  all  the 
new  ones  in  existence.  But  chance,  in  the 
form  of  a  Big  Bug's  visit  of  inspection, 
opened  the  way  for  a  last  effort.  In  the 
machine  examined  by  the  Big  Bug,  an  ex- 
hausted observer  was  making  frantic  efforts 
to  swivel  an  archaic  framework  from  back 
to  front.  The  Big  Bug  looked  puzzled,  but 
passed  on  without  comment.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  next  machine  a  second  ob- 
server tried  desperately  to  move  a  similar 
monstrosity  round  its  hinges,  while  the  pilot, 
stop-watch  in  hand,  looked  on  with  evident 
sorrow.  The  Big  Bug  now  decided  to  in- 
vestigate, and  he  demanded  the  reason  for 
the  stop-watch  and  the  hard  labour. 

"We've  just  timed  this  mounting,  sir,  to 
see  how  quickly  it  could  be  moved  for  firing 
at  a  Hun.  I  find  it  travels  at  the  rate  of 
6.5  inches  a  minute." 

"Disgraceful,"  said  the  Big  Bug.  "We'll 
get  them  replaced  by  the  new  type."  And 
get  them  replaced  he  did,  the  R.N.A.S.  con- 
tract notwithstanding.  The  four  conspira- 
tors have  since  believed  themselves  to  be 
heaven-born  strategists. 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  15 

Followed  the  average  number  of  delays 
due  to  crashed  aeroplanes  and  late  stores. 
At  length,  however,  the  transport  moved 
away  with  our  equipment,  and  we  received 
orders  to  proceed  by  air  a  day  later.  But 
next  day  brought  a  steady  drizzle,  which 
continued  for  some  forty-eight  hours,  so  that 
instead  of  proceeding  by  air  the  kitless  offi- 
cers bought  clean  collars.  Then  came  two 
days  of  low,  clinging  mist,  and  the  purchase 
of  shirts.  A  fine  morning  on  the  fifth  day 
forestalled  the  necessity  of  new  pyjamas. 

At  ten  of  the  clock  we  were  in  our  ma- 
chines, saying  good-bye  to  a  band  of  lucky 
pilots  who  stayed  at  home  to  strafe  the 
Zeppelin  and  be  petted  in  the  picture  press 
and  the  Piccadilly  grillroom.  "Contaxer!" 
called  a  mechanic,  facing  the  flight-command- 
er's propeller.  "  Contact ! "  replied  the  flight- 
commander;  his  engine  roared,  around  flew 
the  propeller,  the  chocks  were  pulled  clear, 
and  away  and  up  raced  the  machine.  The 
rest  followed  and  took  up  their  appointed 
places  behind  the  leader,  at  a  height  chosen 
for  the  rendezvous. 

We  headed  in  a  south-easterly  direction, 


16       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

passing  on  our  left  the  ragged  fringe  of 
London.  At  this  point  the  formation  was 
not  so  good  as  it  might  have  been,  prob- 
ably because  we  were  taking  leave  of  the 
Thames  and  other  landmarks.  But  four  of 
the  twelve  who  comprised  the  party  have 
since  seen  them,  and  of  these  four  one  was 
to  return  by  way  of  a  German  hospital,  a 
prison  camp,  a  jump  from  the  footboard  of 
a  train,  a  series  of  lone  night-walks  that 
extended  over  two  months,  and  an  escape 
across  the  frontier  of  Neutralia,  while  two  fel- 
low-fugitives were  shot  dead  by  Boche  sentries. 
Above  the  junction  of  Redhill  the  leader 
veered  to  the  left  and  steered  by  railway  to 
the  coast.  Each  pilot  paid  close  attention 
to  his  place  in  the  group,  for  this  was  to  be 
a  test  of  whether  our  formation  flying  was 
up  to  the  standard  necessary  for  work  over 
enemy  country.  To  keep  exact  formation  is 
far  from  easy  for  the  novice  who  has  to  deal 
with  the  vagaries  of  a  rotary  engine  in  a 
machine  sensitive  on  the  controls.  The  en- 
gine develops  a  sudden  increase  of  revolu- 
tions, and  the  pilot  finds  himself  overhauling 
the  craft  in  front;  he  throttles  back  and  finds 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  17  , 

himself  being  overhauled  by  the  craft  be- 
hind; a  slight  deviation  from  the  course  and 
the  craft  all  around  seem  to  be  swinging 
sideways  or  upwards.  Not  till  a  pilot  can 
fly  his  bus  unconsciously  does  he  keep  place 
without  repeated  reference  to  the  throttle 
and  instrument-board. 

Beyond  Redhill  we  met  an  unwieldy 
cloudbank  and  were  forced  to  lose  height. 
The  clouds  became  denser  and  lower,  and 
the  formation  continued  to  descend,  so  that 
when  the  coast  came  into  view  we  were 
oelow  3000  feet. 

A  more  serious  complication  happened 
iiear  Dovstone,  the  port  which  was  to  be 
our  cross-Channel  springboard.  There  we 
ran  into  a  mist,  thick  as  a  London  fog. 
It  covered  the  Channel  like  a  blanket,  and 
completely  enveloped  Dovstone  and  district. 
To  cross  under  these  conditions  would  have 
been  absurd,  for  opaque  vapour  isolated  us 
from  the  ground  and  cut  the  chain  of  vis- 
ion which  had  bound  together  the  six  ma- 
chines. We  dropped  through  the  pall  of 
mist  and  trusted  to  Providence  to  save  us 
from  collision. 


18       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

Four  fortunate  buses  emerged  directly 
above  Dovstone  aerodrome,  where  they 
landed.  The  other  two,  in  one  of  which  I 
was  a  passenger,  came  out  a  hundred  feet 
over  the  cliffs.  We  turned  inland,  and  soon 
found  ourselves  travelling  over  a  wilderness 
of  roofs  and  chimneys.  A  church-tower 
loomed  ahead,  so  we  climbed  back  into  the 
mist.  Next  we  all  but  crashed  into  the 
hill  south  of  Dovstone.  We  banked  steeply 
and  swerved  to  the  right,  just  as  the  slope 
seemed  rushing  towards  us  through  the  haze. 

Once  more  we  descended  into  the  clear 
air.  Down  below  was  a  large  field,  and  in 
the  middle  of  it  was  an  aeroplane.  Sup- 
posing this  to  be  the  aerodrome,  we  landed, 
only  to  find  ourselves  in  an  uneven  meadow, 
containing,  besides  the  aeroplane  already 
mentioned,  one  cow,  one  pond,  and  some 
Brass  Hats.*  As  the  second  bus  was  taxi- 
ing over  the  grass  the  pilot  jerked  it  round 
sharply  to  avoid  the  pond.  His  under- 
carriage gave,  the  propeller  hit  the  earth 
and  smashed  itself,  and  the  machine  heeled 


*  Officers  from  Headquarters. 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  19 

over  and  pulled  up  dead,  with  one  wing 
leaning  on  the  ground. 

Marmaduke,  our  war  baby,  was  the  pilot 
of  the  maimed  machine.  He  is  distinctly 
young,  but  he  can  on  occasion  declaim  im- 
passioned language  in  a  manner  that  would 
be  creditable  to  the  most  liver-ridden  major 
in  the  Indian  Army.  The  Brass  Hats 
seemed  mildly  surprised  when,  after  in- 
specting the  damage,  Marmaduke  danced 
around  the  unfortunate  bus  and  cursed  sys- 
tematically persons  and  things  so  diverse  as 
the  thingumy  fool  whose  machine  had  misled 
us  into  landing,  the  thingumy  pond,  the 
thingumy  weather  expert  who  ought  to  have 
warned  us  of  the  thingumy  Channel  mist, 
the  Kaiser,  his  aunt,  and  his  contemptible 
self. 

He  was  no  what-you-may-call-it  good  as  a 
pilot,  shouted  Marmaduke  to  the  ruminative 
cow,  and  he  intended  to  leave  the  blank 
R.F.C.  for  the  Blanky  Army  Service  Corps 
or  the  blankety  Grave-diggers  Corps.  As  a 
last  resort,  he  would  get  a  job  as  a  double- 
blank  Cabinet  Minister,  being  no  blank-blank 
good  for  anything  else. 


20       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

The  Brass  Hats  gazed  and  gazed  and 
gazed.  A  heavy  silence  followed  Marma- 
duke's  outburst,  a  silence  pregnant  with 
possibilities  of  Staff  displeasure,  of  sum- 
mary arrest,  of — laughter.  Laughter  won. 
The  Brass  Hats  belonged  to  the  staff  of 
an  Anzadian  division  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  one  of  them,  a  young-looking  major 
with  pink  riding  breeches  and  a  prairie  ac- 
cent, said — 

"Gentlemen,  some  beautiful  birds,  some 
beautiful  swear,  and,  by  Abraham's  trousers, 
some  beautiful  angel  boy." 

Marmaduke  wiped  the  foam  from  his 
mouth  and  apologised. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  Brass  Hat  from 
one  of  our  great  Dominions  of  Empire,  "I 
do  it  every  day  myself,  before  breakfast 
generally." 

Meanwhile  the  news  of  our  arrival  had 
rippled  the  calm  surface  of  the  daily  round 
at  Dovstone.  Obviously,  said  the  good  peo- 
ple to  each  other,  the  presence  of  three 
aeroplanes  in  a  lonely  field,  with  a  guard 
of  Anzadians  around  the  said  field,  must 
have  some  hidden  meaning.     Perhaps  there 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  21 

had  been  a  German  air  raid  under  cover  of 
the  mist.  Perhaps  a  German  machine  had 
been  brought  down.  Within  half  an  hour  of 
our  erratic  landing  a  dozen  people  in  Dov- 
stone  swore  to  having  seen  a  German  aero- 
plane touch  earth  in  our  field.  The  pilot 
had  been  made  prisoner  by  Anzadians,  added 
the  dozen  eye-witnesses. 

Such  an  event  clearly  called  for  investi- 
gation by  Dovstone's  detective  intellects. 
We  were  honoured  by  a  visit  from  two 
special  constables,  looking  rather  like  the 
Bing  Boys.  Their  collective  eagle  eye 
grasped  the  situation  in  less  than  a  second. 
I  happened  to  be  standing  in  the  centre  of 
the  group,  still  clad  in  flying  kit.  The  Bing 
Boys  decided  that  I  was  their  prey,  and  one 
of  them  advanced,  flourishing  a  note-book. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  he  to  a  Brass  Hat, 
"I  represent  the  civil  authority.  Will  you 
please  tell  me  if  this" — pointing  to  me — "is 
the  captive  baby-killer?  " 

"Now  give  us  the  chorus,  old  son,"  said 
Marmaduke.  Explanations  followed,  and  the 
Bing  Boys  retired,  rather  crestfallen. 

It  is  embarrassing  enough  to  be  mistaken 


22      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

for  a  German  airman.  It  is  more  embar- 
rassing to  be  mistaken  for  an  airman  who 
shot  down  a  German  airman  when  there  was 
no  German  airman  to  shoot  down.  Such 
was  the  fate  of  the  four  of  us — two  pilots 
and  two  observers — when  we  left  our  field  to 
the  cow  and  the  conference  of  Brass  Hats, 
and  drove  to  the  Grand  Hotel.  The  taxi- 
driver,  who,  from  his  enthusiastic  civility, 
had  clearly  never  driven  a  cab  in  London, 
would  not  be  convinced. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said,  when  we  arrived  at 
the  hotel,  "I'm  proud  to  have  driven  you, 
and  I  don't  want  your  money.  No,  sir,  I 
know  you  avi-yaters  are  modest  and  aren't 
allowed  to  say  what  you've  done.  Good  day, 
gentlemen,  and  good  luck,  gentlemen." 

It  was  the  same  in  the  Grand  Hotel. 
Porters  and  waiters  asked  what  had  become 
of  "the  Hun,"  and  no  denial  could  fully 
convince  them.  At  a  tango  tea  held  in  the 
hotel  that  afternoon  we  were  pointed  out  as 
the  intrepid  birdmen  who  had  done  the  deed 
of  the  day.  Flappers  and  fluff-girls  further 
embarrassed  us  with  interested  glances,  and 
one  of  them  asked  for  autographs. 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  23 

Marmaduke  rose  to  the  occasion.  He 
smiled,  produced  a  gold-tipped  fountain-pen, 
and  wrote  with  a  flourish,  "John  James 
Christopher  Benjamin  Brown.  Greetings 
from  Dovstone." 

But  Marmaduke  the  volatile  was  doomed 
to  suffer  a  loss  of  dignity.  He  had  neglected 
to  bring  an  emergency  cap,  which  an  air- 
man on  a  cross-country  flight  should  never 
forget.  Bareheaded  he  accompanied  us  to  a 
hatter's.  Here  the  R.F.C.  caps  of  the 
"stream-lined"  variety  had  all  been«sold,  so 
the  war  baby  was  obliged  to  buy  a  general 
service  hat.  The  only  one  that  fitted  him 
was  shapeless  as  a  Hausfrau,  ponderous  as  a 
Bishop,  unstable  as  a  politician,  grotesque  as 
a  Birthday  Honours'  List.  It  was  a  nice 
quiet  hat,  we  assured  Marmaduke — just  the 
thing  for  active  service.  Did  it  suit  him? 
Very  well  indeed,  we  replied — made  him  look 
like  Lord  Haldane  at  the  age  of  sixteen. 
Marmaduke  bought  it. 

The  monstrosity  brought  us  a  deal  of  at- 
tention in  the  streets,  but  this  Marmaduke 
put  down  to  his  fame  as  a  conqueror  of 
phantom   raiders.     He   began,   however,   to 


24       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

suspect  that  something  was  wrong  when  a 
newsboy  shouted,  "Where  jer  get  that  'at, 
leftenant?"  The  question  was  unoriginal  and 
obvious;  but  the  newsboy  showed  imagina- 
tion at  his  second  effort,  which  was  the  open- 
ing line  of  an  old  music-hall  chorus:  "Sid- 
ney's 'olidays  er  in  Septembah ! "  Marmaduke 
called  at  another  shop  and  chose  the  stiffest 
hat  he  could  find. 

By  next  morning  the  mist  had  cleared,  and 
we  flew  across  the  Channel,  under  a  curtain 
of  clouds,  leaving  Marmaduke  to  fetch  a  new 
machine.  When  you  visit  the  Continent 
after  the  war,  friend  the  reader,  travel  by 
the  Franco-British  service  of  aerial  transport, 
which  will  come  into  being  with  the  return 
of  peace.  You  will  find  it  more  comfortable 
and  less  tiring;  and  if  you  have  a  weak 
stomach  you  will  find  it  less  exacting,  for 
none  but  the  very  nervous  are  ill  in  an  aero- 
plane, if  the  pilot  behaves  himself.  Also, 
you  will  complete  the  journey  in  a  quarter 
of  the  time  taken  by  boat.  Within  fifteen 
minutes  of  our  departure  from  Dovstone  we 
were  in  French  air  country.  A  few  ships 
specked   the   sea-surface,   which   reflected   a 


FLYING  TO  FRANCE  25 

dull  grey  from  the  clouds,  but  otherwise  the 
crossing  was  monotonous. 

We  passed  up  the  coast-line  as  far  as  the 
bend  at  Cape  Grisnez,  and  so  to  Calais. 
Beyond  this  town  were  two  sets  of  canals, 
one  leading  south  and  the  other  east.  Fol- 
low the  southern  group  and  you  will  find 
our  immediate  destination,  the  aircraft  depot 
at  Saint  Gregoire.  Follow  the  eastern  group 
and  they  will  take  you  to  the  Boche  aircraft 
depot  at  Lille.  Thus  were  we  reminded  that 
tango  teas  and  special  constables  belonged  to 
the  past. 

The  covey  landed  at  Saint  Gregoire  with- 
out mishap,  except  for  a  bent  axle  and  a 
torn  tyre.  With  these  replaced,  and  the 
supplies  of  petrol  and  oil  replenished,  we 
flew  south  during  the  afternoon  to  the  river- 
basin  of  war.  Marmaduke  arrived  five  days 
later,  in  time  to  take  part  in  our  first  patrol 
over  the  lines.  On  this  trip  his  engine  was  put 
out  of  action  by  a  stray  fragment  from  anti- 
aircraft. After  gliding  across  the  trenches,  he 
landed  among  some  dug-outs  inhabited  by 
sappers,  and  made  use  of  much  the  same 
vocabulary  as  when  he  crashed  at  Dovstone. 


26       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

Marmaduke  shot  down  several  Hun  ma- 
chines during  the  weeks  that  followed,  but  on 
the  very  day  of  his  posting  for  a  decoration  a 
Blighty  bullet  gave  him  a  return  ticket  to  Eng- 
land and  a  mention  in  the  casualty  list.  When 
last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  at  Dovstone  aero- 
drome, teaching  his  elders  how  to  fly.  I  can 
guess  what  he  would  do  if  at  the  Grand  Hotel 
there  some  chance-introduced  collector  of  au- 
tographs offered  her  book.  He  would  think 
of  the  cow  and  the  Brass  Hats,  smile,  pro- 
duce his  gold-tipped  fountain-pen,  and  write 
with  a  flourish,  "John  James  Christopher 
Benjamin  Brown.  Greetings  from  Dovstone." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   DAY'S   WORK. 

For  weeks  we  had  talked  guardedly  of  "it" 
and  "them" — of  the  greatest  day  of  the 
Push  and  the  latest  form  of  warfare.  De- 
tails of  the  twin  mysteries  had  been  rightly 
kept  secret  by  the  red-hatted  Olympians 
who  really  knew,  though  we  of  the  fighting 
branches  had  heard  sufficient  to  stimulate  an 
appetite  for  rumour  and  exaggeration.  Con- 
sequently we  possessed  our  souls  in  im- 
patience and  dabbled  in  conjecture. 

Small  forts  moving  on  the  caterpillar  sys- 
tem of  traction  used  for  heavy  guns  were  to 
crawl  across  No  Man's  Land,  enfilade  the 
enemy  front  line  with  quick-firing  and  ma- 
chine guns,  and  hurl  bombs  on  such  of  the 
works  and  emplacements  as  they  did  not 
ram  to  pieces, — thus  a  confidential  adjutant, 
who  seemed  to  think  he  had  admitted  me 
into  the  inner  circle  of  knowledge  tenanted 
only  by  himself  and  the  G.S.O.  people  (I., 
II.,  ard  III.,  besides  untabbed  nondescripts). 

27 


28       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

Veterans  gave  tips  on  war  in  the  open  coun- 
try, or  chatted  airily  about  another  tour  of 
such  places  as  Le  Catelet,  Le  Cateau,  Mons, 
the  Maubeuge  district,  and  Namur.  The 
cautious  listened  in  silence,  and  distilled  only 
two  facts  from  the  dubious  mixture  of  fancy. 
The  first  was  that  we  were  booked  for  a  big 
advance  one  of  these  fine  days;  and  the 
second  that  new  armoured  cars,  caterpillared 
and  powerfully  armed,  would  make  their 
bow  to  Brother  Boche. 

The  balloon  of  swollen  conjecture  floated 
over  the  back  of  the  Front  until  it  was  de- 
stroyed by  the  quick-fire  of  authentic  orders, 
which  necessarily  revealed  much  of  the  plan 
and  many  of  the  methods.  On  the  after- 
noon of  September  14  all  the  officers  of  our 
aerodrome  were  summoned  to  an  empty  shed. 
There  we  found  our  own  particular  General, 
who  said  more  to  the  point  in  five  minutes 
than  the  rumourists  had  said  in  five  weeks. 
There  was  to  be  a  grand  attack  next  morning. 
The  immediate  objectives  were  not  distant, 
but  their  gain  would  be  of  enormous  value. 
Every  atom  of  energy  must  be  concentrated 
on  the  task.    It  was  hoped  that  an  element 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  29 

of  surprise  would  be  on  our  side,  helped  by  a 
new  engine  of  war  christened  the  Tank.  The 
nature  of  this  strange  animal,  male  and  fe- 
male, was  then  explained. 

Next  came  an  exposition  of  the  part  al- 
lotted to  the  Flying  Corps.  No  German 
machines  could  be  allowed  near  enough  to 
the  lines  for  any  observation.  We  must 
shoot  all  Hun  machines  at  sight  and  give 
them  no  rest.  Our  bombers  should  make 
life  a  burden  on  the  enemy  lines  of  com- 
munication. Infantry  and  transport  were  to 
be  worried,  whenever  possible,  by  machine- 
gun  fire  from  above.  Machines  would  be 
detailed  for  contact  work  with  our  infantry. 
Reconnaissance  jobs  were  to  be  completed  at 
all  costs,  if  there  seemed  the  slightest  chance 
of  bringing  back  useful  information. 

No  more  bubbles  of  hot  air  were  blown 
around  the  mess  table.  Only  the  evening 
was  between  us  and  the  day  of  days.  The 
time  before  dinner  was  filled  by  the  testing 
of  machines  and  the  writing  of  those  cheer- 
ful, non-committal  letters  that  precede  big 
happenings  at  the  front.  Our  flight  had 
visitors   to   dinner,   but   the   shadow   of   to- 


30       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

morrow  was  too  insistent  for  the  racket 
customary  on  a  guest  night.  It  was  as  if 
the  electricity  had  been  withdrawn  from  the 
atmosphere  and  condensed  for  use  when  re- 
quired. The  dinner  talk  was  curiously  re- 
strained. The  usual  shop  chatter  prevailed, 
leavened  by  snatches  of  bantering  cynicism 
from  those  infants  of  the  world  who  thought 
that  to  be  a  beau  sabreur  of  the  air  one 
must  juggle  verbally  with  life,  death,  and 
Archie  shells.  Even  these  war  babies  (three 
of  them  died  very  gallantly  before  we  re- 
assembled for  breakfast  next  day)  had 
bottled  most  of  their  exuberance.  Under- 
standing silences  were  sandwiched  between 
yarns.  A  wag  searched  for  the  Pagliacci 
record,  and  set  the  gramophone  to  churn 
out  "Vesti  la  Giubba."  The  guests  stayed 
to  listen  politely  to  a  few  revue  melodies, 
and  then  slipped  away.  The  rest  turned  in 
immediately,  in  view  of  the  jobs  at  early 
dawn. 

"Night,  everybody,"  said  one  of  the  flight- 
commanders.  "Meet  you  at  Mossy-Face  in 
the  morning!" 

In  the  morning  some  of  us  saw  him  spin 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  31 

earthwards  over  Mossy-Face  Wood,  sur- 
rounded by  Hun  machines. 

Long  before  the  dawn  of  September  15,  I 
awoke  to  the  roar  of  engines,  followed  by 
an  overhead  drone  as  a  party  of  bombers 
circled  round  until  they  were  ready  to  start. 
When  this  noise  had  died  away,  the  dull 
boom  of  an  intense  bombardment  was  able 
to  make  itself  heard.  I  rolled  over  and  went 
to  sleep  again,  for  our  own  show  was  not 
due  to  start  until  three  hours  later. 

The  Flying  Corps  programme  on  the  great 
day  was  a  marvel  of  organisation.  The  jobs 
fitted  into  one  another,  and  into  the  general 
tactical  scheme  of  the  advance,  as  exactly  as 
the  parts  of  a  flawless  motor.  At  no  time 
could  enemy  craft  steal  toward  the  lines  to 
spy  out  the  land.  Every  sector  was  covered 
by  defensive  patrols  which  travelled  north- 
ward and  southward,  southward  and  north- 
ward, eager  to  pounce  on  any  black-crossed 
stranger.  Offensive  patrols  moved  and 
fought  over  Boche  territory  until  they  were 
relieved  by  other  offensive  patrols.  The  ma- 
chines on  artillery  observation  were  thus  wor- 
ried only  by  Archie,  and  the  reconnaissance 


32       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

formations  were  able  to  do  their  work  with 
little  interruption,  except  when  they  passed 
well  outside  the  patrol  areas.  Throughout 
the  day  those  guerillas  of  the  air,  the  bomb- 
ing craft,  went  across  and  dropped  eggs  on 
anything  between  general  headquarters  and  a 
railway  line.  The  corps  buses  kept  constant 
communication  between  attacking  battalions 
and  the  rear.  A  machine  first  reported  the 
exploit  of  the  immortal  Tank  that  waddled 
down  High  Street,  Flers,  spitting  bullets  and 
inspiring  sick  fear.  And  there  were  many 
free-lance  stunts,  such  as  Lewis  gun  attacks 
on  reserve  troops  or  on  trains. 

The  three  squadrons  attached  to  our  aero- 
drome had  to  the  day's  credit  two  long 
reconnaissances,  three  offensive  patrols,  and 
four  bomb  raids.  Six  Hun  machines  were 
destroyed  on  these  shows,  and  the  bombers 
did  magnificent  work  at  vital  points.  At  2 
a.m.  they  dropped  eggs  on  the  German 
Somme  headquarters.  An  hour  later  they 
deranged  the  railway  station  of  a  large  gar- 
rison town.  For  the  remaining  time  before 
sunset  they  were  not  so  busy.  They  merely 
destroyed  an  ammunition  train,  cut  two  rail- 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  33 

way  lines,  damaged  an  important  railhead, 
and  sprayed  a  bivouac  ground. 

An  orderly  called  me  at  4.15  a.m.  for  the 
big  offensive  patrol.  The  sky  was  a  dark- 
grey  curtain  decorated  by  faintly  twinkling 
stars.  I  dressed  to  the  thunderous  accom- 
paniment of  the  guns,  warmed  myself  with 
a  cup  of  hot  cocoa,  donned  flying  kit,  and 
hurried  to  the  aerodrome.  There  we  gath- 
ered around  C,  the  patrol  leader,  who  gave 
us  final  instructions  about  the  method  of 
attack.  We  tested  our  guns  and  climbed 
into  the  machines. 

By  now  the  east  had  turned  to  a  light 
grey  with  pink  smudges  from  the  forefinger 
of  sunrise.  Punctually  at  five  o'clock  the 
order,  "Start  up!"  passed  down  the  long 
line  of  machines.  The  flight-commander's 
engine  began  a  loud  metallic  roar,  then 
softened  as  it  was  throttled  down.  The 
pilot  waved  his  hand,  the  chocks  were  pulled 
from  under  the  wheels,  and  the  machine 
moved  forward.  The  throttle  was  again 
opened  full  out  as  the  bus  raced  into  the 
wind  until  flying  speed  had  been  attained, 
when  it  skimmed  gently  from  the  ground* 


34       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

We  followed,  and  carried  out  the  rendezvous 
at  3000  feet. 

The  morning  light  increased  every  minute, 
and  the  grey  of  the  sky  was  merging  into 
blue.  The  faint,  hovering  ground-mist  was 
not  sufficient  to  screen  our  landmarks.  The 
country  below  was  a  shadowy  patchwork  of 
coloured  pieces.  The  woods,  fantastic  shapes 
of  dark  green,  stood  out  strongly  from  the 
mosaic  of  brown  and  green  fields.  The  pat- 
tern was  divided  and  subdivided  by  the 
straight,  poplar-bordered  roads  peculiar  to 
France. 

We  passed  on  to  the  dirty  strip  of  wilder- 
ness which  is  the  actual  front.  The  battered 
villages  and  disorderly  ruins  looked  like  hie- 
roglyphics traced  on  wet  sand.  A  sea  of 
smoke  rolled  over  the  ground  for  miles.  It 
was  a  by-product  of  one  of  the  most  terrific 
bombardments  in  the  history  of  trench  war- 
fare. Through  it  hundreds  of  gun-flashes 
twinkled,  like  the  lights  of  a  Chinese  garden. 

Hav'ng  reached  a  height  of  12,000  feet,  we 
crossed  the  trenches  south  of  Bapaume.  As 
the  danger  that  stray  bullets  might  fall  on 
friends  no  longer  existed,  pilots  and  observers 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  35 

fired  a  few  rounds  into  space  to  make  sure 
their  guns  were  behaving  properly. 

Archie  began  his  frightfulness  early.  He 
concentrated  on  the  leader's  machine,  but 
the  still-dim  light  spoiled  his  aim,  and  many 
of  the  bursts  were  dotted  between  the  craft 
behind.  I  heard  the  customary  wouff!  wouff! 
wouff!  followed  in  one  case  by  the  hs-s-s-s-s 
of  passing  fragments.  We  swerved  and 
dodged  to  disconcert  the  gunners.  After  five 
minutes  of  hide-and-seek,  we  shook  off  this 
group  of  Archie  batteries. 

The  flight-commander  headed  for  Mossy- 
Face  Wood,  scene  of  many  air  battles  and 
bomb  raids.  An  aerodrome  just  east  of  the 
wood  was  the  home  of  the  Fokker  star, 
Boelcke.  C.  led  us  to  it,  for  it  was  his  great 
ambition  to  account  for  Germany's  best 
pilot. 

While  we  approached,  I  looked  down  and 
saw  eight  machines  with  black  Maltese 
crosses  on  their  planes,  about  three  thousand 
feet  below.  They  had  clipped  wings  of  a 
peculiar  whiteness,  and  they  were  ranged  one 
above  the  other,  like  the  rungs  of  a  Venetian 
blind.     A   cluster   of   small   scouts   swooped 


36       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

down  from  Heaven-knows-what  height  and 
hovered  above  us;  but  C.  evidently  did  not 
see  them,  for  he  dived  steeply  on  the  Huns 
underneath,  accompanied  by  the  two  ma- 
chines nearest  him.  The  other  group  of 
enemies  then  dived. 

I  looked  up  and  saw  a  narrow  biplane, 
apparently  a  Roland,  rushing  towards  our 
bus.  My  pilot  turned  vertically  and  then 
side-slipped  to  disconcert  the  Boche's  aim. 
The  black-crossed  craft  swept  over  at  a  dis- 
tance of  less  than  a  hundred  yards.  I  raised 
my  gun-mounting,  sighted,  and  pressed  the 
trigger.  Three  shots  rattled  off — and  my 
Lewis  gun  ceased  fire. 

Intensely  annoyed  at  being  cheated  out  of 
such  a  splendid  target,  I  applied  immediate 
action,  pulled  back  the  cocking-handle  and 
pressed  the  trigger  again.  Nothing  hap- 
pened. After  one  more  immediate  action 
test,  I  examined  the  gun  and  found  that  an 
incoming  cartridge  and  an  empty  case  were 
jammed  together  in  the  breech.  To  remedy 
the  stoppage,  I  had  to  remove  spade-grip 
and  body  cover.  As  I  did  this,  I  heard  an 
ominous  ta-ta-ta-ta-ta  from  the  returning  Ger- 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  37 

man  scout.  My  pilot  cart-wheeled  round 
and  made  for  the  Hun,  his  gun  spitting  con- 
tinuously through  the  propeller.  The  two 
machines  raced  at  each  other  until  less  than 
fifty  yards  separated  them.  Then  the  Boche 
swayed,  turned  aside,  and  put  his  nose  down. 
We  dropped  after  him,  with  our  front 
machine-gun  still  speaking.  The  Roland's 
glide  merged  into  a  dive,  and  we  imitated 
him.  Suddenly  a  streak  of  flame  came  from 
his  petrol  tank,  and  the  next  second  he  was 
rushing  earthwards,  with  two  streamers  of 
smoke  trailing  behind. 

I  was  unable  to  see  the  end  of  this  vertical 
dive,  for  two  more  single-seaters  were  upon 
us.  They  plugged  away  while  I  remedied 
the  stoppage,  and  several  bullets  ventilated 
the  fuselage  quite  close  to  my  cockpit.  When 
my  gun  was  itself  again,  I  changed  the  drum 
of  ammunition,  and  hastened  to  fire  at  the 
nearest  Hun.  He  was  evidently  unprepared, 
for  he  turned  and  moved  across  our  tail.  As 
he  did  so,  I  raked  his  bus  from  stem  to  stern. 
I  looked  at  him  hopefully,  for  the  range  was 
very  short,  and  I  expected  to  see  him  drop 
towards  the  ground  at  several  miles  a  min- 


38       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

ute.  He  sailed  on  serenely.  This  is  an  an- 
noying habit  of  enemy  machines  when  one 
is  sure  that,  by  the  rules  of  the  game,  they 
ought  to  be  destroyed.  The  machine  in 
question  was  probably  hit,  however,  for  it 
did  not  return,  and  I  saw  it  begin  a  glide  as 
though  the  pilot  meant  to  land.  We  switched 
our  attention  to  the  remaining  Hun,  but  this 
one  was  not  anxious  to  fight  alone.  He  dived 
a  few  hundred  feet,  with  tail  well  up,  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  a  trout  when  it  drops 
back  into  water.  Afterwards  he  flattened 
out  and  went  east. 

During  the  fight  we  had  become  separated 
from  the  remainder  of  our  party.  I  searched 
all  rounr*  the  compass,  but  could  find  neither 
friend  nor  foe.  We  returned  to  the  aero- 
drome where  hostile  craft  were  first  sighted. 
There  was  no  sign  of  C.'s  machine  or  of  the 
others  who  dived  on  the  first  group  of  Huns. 
Several  German  machines  were  at  rest  in  the 
aerodrome. 

Finding  ourselves  alone,  we  passed  on  to- 
wards the  lines.  I  twisted  my  neck  in  every 
direction,  for  over  enemy  country  only  a 
constant  look  out  above,  below,  and  on  all 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  39 

sides  can  save  a  machine  from  a  surprise 
attack.  After  a  few  minutes,  we  spotted  six 
craft  bearing  towards  us  from  a  great  height. 
Through  field-glasses  I  was  able  to  see  their 
black  crosses,  and  I  fingered  my  machine- 
gun  expectantly. 

The  strangers  dived  in  two  lots  of  three. 
I  waited  until  the  first  three  were  within 
300  yards'  range  and  opened  fire.  One  of 
them  swerved  away,  but  the  other  two  passed 
right  under  us.  Something  sang  to  the  right, 
and  I  found  that  part  of  a  landing-wire  was 
dangling  helplessly  from  its  socket.  We 
thanked  whatever  gods  there  be  that  it  was 
not  a  flying-wire,  and  turned  to  meet  the  next 
three  Huns.  We  swerved  violently,  and  they 
pulled  out  of  their  dive  well  away  from  us. 
With  nose  down  and  engine  full  out,  we 
raced  towards  the  lines  and  safety.  Three  of 
the  attackers  were  unable  to  keep  up  with 
us  and  we  left  them  behind. 

The  other  three  Germans,  classed  by  my 
pilot  as  Halberstadts,  had  a  great  deal  more 
speed  than  ours.  They  did  not  attack  at 
close  quarters  immediately,  but  flew  200  to 
300  yards  behind,  ready  to  pounce  at  their 


40      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

own  moment.  Two  of  them  got  between  my 
gun  and  our  tail-plane,  so  that  they  were 
safe  from  my  fire.  The  third  was  slightly 
above  our  height,  and  for  his  benefit  I  stood 
up  and  rattled  through  a  whole  ammunition- 
drum.  Here  let  me  say  I  do  not  think  I 
hit  him,  for  he  was  not  in  difficulties.  He 
dived  below  us  to  join  his  companions,  pos- 
sibly because  he  did  not  like  being  under 
fire  when  they  were  not.  To  my  surprise 
and  joy,  he  fell  slick  on  one  of  the  other  two 
Hun  machines.  This  latter  broke  into  two 
pieces,  which  fell  like  stones.  The  machine 
responsible  for  my  luck  side-slipped,  spun  a 
little,  recovered,  and  went  down  to  land. 
The  third  made  off  east. 

In  plain  print  and  at  a  normal  time,  this 
episode  shows  little  that  is  comic.  But  when 
it  happened  I  was  in  a  state  of  high  tension, 
and  this,  combined  with  the  startling  realisa- 
tion that  a  Hun  pilot  had  saved  me  and  de- 
stroyed his  friend,  seemed  irresistibly  comic. 
I  cackled  with  laughter  and  was  annoyed  be- 
cause my  pilot  did  not  see  the  joke. 

We  reached  the  lines  without  further  trou- 
ble from   anything  but  Archie.     The  pink 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  41 

streaks  of  daybreak  had  now  disappeared 
beneath  the  whole  body  of  the  sunrise,  and 
the  sky  was  of  that  intense  blue  which  is  the 
secret  of  France.  What  was  left  of  the 
ground-mist  shimmered  as  it  congealed  in 
the  sunlight.  The  pall  of  smoke  from  the 
guns  had  doubled  in  volume.  The  Ancre 
sparkled  brightly. 

We  cruised  around  in  a  search  for  others 
of  our  party,  but  found  none.  A  defensive 
patrol  was  operating  between  Albert  and  the 
trenches.  We  joined  it  for  half  an  hour,  at 
the  end  of  which  I  heard  a  "Halloa!"  from 
the  speaking-tube. 

"What's  up  now?"  I  asked. 

"Going  to  have  a  look  at  the  war,"  was 
the  pilot's  reply. 

Before  I  grasped  his  meaning  he  had  shut 
off  the  engine  and  we  were  gliding  towards 
the  trenches.  At  1200  feet  we  switched  on, 
flattened  out,  and  looked  for  movement  be- 
low. There  was  no  infantry  advance  at  the 
moment,  but  below  Courcelette  what  seemed 
to  be  two  ungainly  masses  of  black  slime 
were  slithering  over  the  groimd.  I  rubbed 
my  eyes  and  looked   again.     One  of  them 


42       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

actually  crawled  among  the  scrapheaps  that 
fringed  the  ruins  of  the  village.  Only  then 
did  the  thought  that  they  might  be  Tanks 
suggest  itself.  Afterwards  I  discovered  that 
this  was  so. 

The  machine  rocked  violently  as  a  pro- 
jectile hurtled  by  underneath  us.  The  pilot 
remembered  the  broken  landing-wire  ancj 
steered  for  home.  After  landing,  we  com- 
pared notes  with  others  who  had  returned 
from  the  expedition.  C,  we  learned,  was 
down  at  last,  after  seventeen  months  of 
flying  on  active  service,  with  only  one  break 
for  any  appreciable  time.  He  destroyed  one 
more  enemy  before  the  Boches  got  him.  In 
the  dive  he  got  right  ahead  of  the  two  ma- 
chines that  followed  him.  As  these  hurried 
to  his  assistance,  they  saw  an  enemy  plane 
turn  over,  show  a  white,  gleaming  belly,  and 
drop  in  zigzags.  C/s  bus  was  then  seen  to 
heel  over  into  a  vertical  dive  and  to  plunge 
down,  spinning  rhythmically  on  its  axis. 
Probably  he  was  shot  dead  and  fell  over  on 
to  the  joystick,  which  put  the  machine  to  its 
last  dive.  The  petrol  tank  of  the  second 
machine    to    arrive    among    the    Huns    was 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  43 

plugged  by  a  bullet,  and  the  pilot  was  forced 
to  land.  Weeks  later,  his  observer  wrote  us 
a  letter  from  a  prison  camp  in  Hanover.  The 
third  bus,  perforated  by  scores  of  bullet- 
lioles,  got  back  to  tell  the  tale. 

C.  was  one  of  the  greatest  pilots  pro- 
duced by  the  war.  He  was  utterly  fear- 
less, and  had  more  time  over  the  German 
lines  to  his  credit  than  any  one  else  in  the 
Flying  Corps.  It  was  part  of  his  fatalistic 
creed  that  Archie  should  never  be  dodged, 
and  he  would  go  calmly  ahead  when  the 
A.-A.  guns  were  at  their  best.  Somehow, 
the  bursts  never  found  him.  He  had  won 
both  the  D.S.O.  and  the  M.C.  for  deeds  in 
the  air.  Only  the  evening  before,  when 
asked  lightly  if  he  was  out  for  a  V.C.,  he  said 
he  would  rather  get  Boelcke  than  the  V.C.; 
and  in  the  end  Boelcke  probably  got  him, 
for  he  fell  over  the  famous  German  pilot's 
aerodrome,  and  that  day  the  German  wire- 
less announced  that  Boelcke  had  shot  down 
two  more  machines.  Peace  to  the  ashes  of  a 
fine  pilot  and  a  very  brave  man! 

Two  observers,  other  than  C.'s  passenger, 
had  been  killed  during  our  patrol.     One  of 


44       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

them  was  "Uncle,"  a  captain  in  the  Norths 
umberland  Fusiliers.  A  bullet  entered  the 
large  artery  of  his  thigh.  He  bled  profusely 
and  lost  consciousness  in  the  middle  of  a 
fight  with  two  Huns.  When  he  came  to,  a 
few  minutes  later,  he  grabbed  his  gun  and 
opened  fire  on  an  enemy.  After  about  forty 
shots  the  chatter  of  the  gun  ceased,  and 
through  the  speaking-tube  a  faint  voice  told 
the  pilot  to  look  round.  The  pilot  did  so,  and 
saw  a  Maltese-cross  biplane  falling  in  flames. 
But  Uncle  had  faded  into  unconsciousness 
again,  and  he  never  came  back.  It  is  more 
than  possible  that  if  he  had  put  a  tourniquet 
round  his  thigh,  instead  of  continuing  the 
fight,  he  might  have  lived. 

A  great  death,  you  say?  One  of  many 
such.  Only  the  day  before  I  had  helped 
to  lift  the  limp  body  of  Paddy  from  the  floor 
of  an  observer's  cockpit.  He  had  been  shot 
over  the  heart.  He  fainted,  recovered  his 
senses  for  ten  minutes,  and  kept  two  Huns 
at  bay  until  he  died,  by  which  time  the 
trenches  were  reached 

Imagine  yourself  uiitiei    fili   in   an   aeit 
plane  at  10,000  feet.     Imagine  that  only  a 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  45 

second  ago  you  were  in  the  country  of  shad- 
ows. Imagine  yourself  feeling  giddy  and 
deadly  sick  from  loss  of  blood.  Imagine 
what  is  left  of  your  consciousness  to  be 
stabbed  insistently  by  a  throbbing  pain. 
Now  imagine  how  you  would  force  yourself 
in  this  condition  to  grasp  a  machine-gun  in 
your  numbed  hand,  pull  back  the  cocking- 
handle,  take  careful  aim  at  a  fast  machine, 
allowing  for  deflection,  and  fire  until  you 
sink  into  death.  Some  day  I  hope  to  be 
allowed  to  visit  Valhalla  for  half  an  hour, 
that  I  may  congratulate  Paddy  and  Uncle. 

We  refreshed  ourselves  with  cold  baths 
and  hot  breakfast.  In  the  mess  the  fights 
were  reconstructed.  Sudden  silences  were 
frequent — an  unspoken  tribute  to  C.  and  the 
other  casualties.  But  at  lunch-time  we  were 
cheered  by  the  news  that  the  first  and  sec- 
ond objectives  had  been  reached,  that  Mar- 
tinpuich,  Courcelette,  and  Flers  had  fallen, 
and  that  the  Tanks  had  behaved  well. 

After  lunch  I  rested  awhile  before  the  long 
reconnaissance,  due  to  start  at  three.  Six 
machines  were  detailed  for  this  job;  though 
a  faulty  engine  kept  one  of  them  on  the 


46       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

ground.  The  observers  marked  the  course 
on  their  maps,  and  wrote  out  lists  of  railway 
stations.  At  3.30  we  set  off  towards 
Arras. 

Archie  hit  out  as  soon  as  we  crossed  to 
his  side  of  the  front.  He  was  especially- 
dangerous  that  afternoon,  as  if  determined 
to  avenge  the  German  defeat  of  the  morn- 
ing. Each  bus  in  turn  was  encircled  by 
black  bursts,  and  each  bus  in  turn  lost  height, 
swerved,  or  changed  its  course  to  defeat  the 
gunner's  aim.  A  piece  of  H.E.  hit  our  tail- 
plane,  and  stayed  there  until  I  cut  it  out  for 
a  souvenir  when  we  had  returned. 

The  observers  were  kept  busy  with  note- 
book and  pencil,  for  the  train  movement  was 
far  greater  than  the  average,  and  streaks  of 
smoke  courted  attention  on  all  the  railways. 
Rolling  stock  was  correspondingly  small,  and 
the  counting  of  the  trucks  in  the  sidings  was 
not  difficult.  Road  and  canal  transport  was 
plentiful.  As  evidence  of  the  urgency  of  all 
this  traffic,  I  remarked  that  no  effort  at  con- 
cealment was  made.  On  ordinary  days,  a 
German  train  always  shut  off  steam  when 
we  approached;    and  often  I  saw  transport 


THE  DAY'S  WORK  47 

passing  along  the  road  one  minute,  and  not 
passing  along  the  road  the  next.  On  Sep- 
tember 15  the  traffic  was  too  urgent  for  time 
to  be  lost  by  hide-and-seek. 

We  passed  several  of  our  offensive  patrols, 
each  of  which  escorted  us  while  we  were  on 
its  beat.  It  was  curious  that  no  activity 
could  be  noticed  on  enemy  aerodromes. 
Until  we  passed  Mossy-Face  on  the  last  lap 
of  the  homeward  journey  we  saw  no  Hun 
aircraft.  Even  there  the  machines  with  black 
crosses  flew  very  low  and  did  not  attempt  to 
offer  battle. 

Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  happened 
until  we  were  about  to  cross  the  trenches 
north  of  Peronne.  Archie  then  scored  an 
inner.  One  of  his  chunks  swept  the  left 
aileron  from  the  leader's  machine,  which 
banked  vertically,  almost  rolled  over,  and 
began  to  spin.  For  two  thousand  feet  the 
irregular  drop  continued,  and  the  observer 
gave  up  hope.  Luckily  for  him,  the  pilot 
was  not  of  the  same  mind,  and  managed  to 
check  the  spin  by  juggling  with  his  rudder- 
controls.  The  bus  flew  home,  left  wing  well 
down,  with  the  observer  leaning  far  out  to 


48       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  right  to  restore  equilibrium,  while  the 
icy  rush  of  air  boxed  his  ears. 

We  landed,  wrote  our  reports,  and  took 
thern  to  headquarters.  The  day's  work  had 
been  done,  which  was  all  that  mattered  to 
any  extent,  and  a  very  able  general  told  us 
it  was  "dom  good."  But  many  a  day  passed 
before  we  grew  accustomed  to  the  absence  of 
Uncle  and  Paddy. 

And  so  to  bed,  until  we  were  called  foi 
another  early  morning  show. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    SUMMER   JOY-RIDE. 

It  happened  late  in  the  afternoon,  one  Au- 
gust dog-day.  No  wind  leavened  the  lan- 
guid air,  and  hut,  hangar,  tent,  and  workshop 
were  oppressive  with  a  heavy  heat,  so  that 
we  wanted  to  sleep.  To  taxi  across  the  grass 
in  a  chase  for  flying  speed,  to  soar  gently 
from  the  hot  ground,  and,  by  leaning  be- 
yond the  wind-screen,  to  let  the  slip-stream 
of  displaced  air  play  on  one's  face — all  this 
was  refreshing  as  a  cold  plunge  after  a  Turk- 
ish bath.  I  congratulated  myself  that  I  was 
no  longer  a  gunner,  strenuous  over  intermin- 
able corrections,  or  tiredly  alert  in  a  close 
-observation  post. 

Our  party  consisted  of  four  machines,  each 
complete  with  pilot,  observer,  and  several 
hundred  rounds  of  ammunition.  The  job 
was  an  offensive  patrol — that  is  to  say,  we 
were  to  hunt  trouble  around  a  given  area 
behind  the  Boche  lines.  A  great  deal  of  the 
credit  for  our   "mastery  of  the  air" — that 

49 


50       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

glib  phrase  of  the  question-asking  politician 
— during  the  Somme  Push  of  1916,  belongs 
to  those  who  organised  and  those  who  led 
these  fighting  expeditions  over  enemy  coun- 
try. Thanks  to  them,  our  aircraft  were  able 
to  carry  out  reconnaissance,  artillery  obser- 
vation, and  photography  with  a  minimum  of 
interruption,  while  the  German  planes  were 
so  hard  pressed  to  defend  their  place  in  the 
air  that  they  could  seldom  guide  their  own 
guns  or  collect  useful  information.  To  this 
satisfactory  result  must  be  added  the  irri- 
tative effect  on  enemy  morale  of  the  know- 
ledge that  whenever  the  weather  was  fine 
our  machines  hummed  overhead,  ready  to 
molest  and  be  molested. 

Offensive  patrols  are  well  worth  while,  but 
for  the  comfort  of  those  directly  concerned 
they  are  rather  too  exciting.  When  friends 
are  below  during  an  air  duel  a  pilot  is  warmly 
conscious  that  should  he  or  his  machine  be 
crippled  he  can  break  away  and  land,  and 
there's  an  end  of  it.  But  if  a  pilot  be 
wounded  in  a  scrap  far  away  from  home, 
before  he  can  land  he  must  fly  for  many 
miles,  under  shell  fire  and  probably  pursued 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  51 

by  enemies.  He  must  conquer  the  blighting 
faintness  which  accompanies  loss  of  blood, 
keep  clear-headed  enough  to  deal  instan- 
taneously with  adverse  emergency,  and  make 
an  unwilling  brain  command  unwilling  hands 
and  feet  to  control  a  delicate  apparatus. 
Worst  of  all,  if  his  engine  be  put  out  of 
action  at  a  spot  beyond  gliding  distance  of 
the  lines,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  de- 
scend and  tamely  surrender.  And  always  he 
is  within  reach  of  that  vindictive  exponent 
of  frightfulness,  Archibald  the  Ever-Ready. 

As  we  climbed  to  4000  feet  the  machines 
above  threw  glints  of  sunlight  on  the  screen 
of  blue  infinity.  We  ranged  ourselves  and 
departed.  Passing  the  red  roofs  and  heart- 
shaped  citadel  of  Doulens  and  a  jagged  wood 
suggestive  of  a  lion  rampant,  we  followed 
the  straight  road  to  Arras.  Arrived  there, 
the  leader  turned  south,  for  we  were  not 
yet  high  enough.  As  we  moved  along  the 
brown  band  of  shell-pocked  desolation  we 
continued  to  climb.  Patches  of  smoke  from 
the  guns  hovered  over  the  ground  at  in- 
tervals. A  score  of  lazy-looking  kite  bal- 
loons hung  motionless. 


52       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

By  the  time  we  reached  Albert  our  height 
was  12,000  feet,  and  we  steered  eastward 
over  the  ground  gained  in  the  June-July 
advance.  Beyond  the  scrap-heap  that  once 
was  Pozieres  two  enormous  mine  craters 
showed  up,  dented  into  the  razed  surface, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  Albert-Bapaume 
road.  Flying  very  low  a  few  buses  were 
working  on  trench  reconnaissance.  The  sun- 
shine rebounded  from  the  top  of  their  wings, 
and  against  the  discoloured  earth  they  looked 
like  fireflies.  A  mile  or  so  behind  the  then 
front  lines  were  the  twin  villages  of  Cource- 
lette  and  Martinpuich,  divided  only  by  the 
road.  Already  they  were  badly  battered, 
though,  unlike  Pozieres,  they  still  deserved 
the  title  of  village.  Le  Sars,  which  sat 
astride  the  road,  nearer  Bapaume,  had  been 
set  afire  by  our  guns,  and  was  smoking. 

In  those  days,  before  the  methodical  ad- 
vance of  the  British  artillery  had  begun  to 
worry  the  stronghold  overmuch,  Bapaume 
was  a  hotbed  of  all  the  anti-aircraft  devilries. 
We  therefore  swerved  toward  the  south. 
Archie  was  not  to  be  shaken  off  so  easily, 
and  we  began  a  series  of  erratic  deviations 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  53 

as  he  ringed  with  black  puffs  first  one  ma- 
chine, then  another.  The  shooting  was  not 
particularly  good;  for  although  no  clouds  in- 
tervened between  the  guns  and  their  mark, 
a  powerful  sun  dazzled  the  gunners,  who 
must  have  found  difficulty  in  judging  height 
and  direction.  From  Archie's  point  of  view, 
the  perfect  sky  is  one  screened  from  the 
sunlight,  at  20,000  to  30,000  feet,  by  a  man- 
tle of  thin  clouds  against  which  aircraft  are 
outlined  boldly,  like  stags  on  a  snow-covered 
slope. 

A  few  minutes  in  a  south-easterly  direc- 
tion brought  us  to  the  Bois  d'Havrincourt, 
a  large  ungainly  wood,  the  shape  of  which 
was  something  between  the  ace  of  spades 
and  the  ace  of  clubs.  This  we  knew  as 
Mossy-Face.  The  region  around  it  was 
notorious  in  R.F.C.  messes  as  being  the 
chief  centre  of  the  Boche  Flying  Corps 
on  the  British  Front. 

From  the  south-west  corner  Archie  again 
scattered  burst  and  bark  at  our  group,  but 
his  inaccuracy  made  dodging  hardly  neces- 
sary. A  lull  followed,  and  I  twisted  my 
neck    all    round    the    compass,    for,    in    the 


54       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

presence  of  hostile  aeroplanes,  Archie  seldom 
behaves,  except  when  friendly  machines  are 
about.  Two  thousand  feet  below  three 
biplanes  were  approaching  the  wood  from 
the  south.  Black  crosses  showed  up  plainly 
on  their  grey-white  wings.  We  dropped 
into  a  dive  toward  the  strangers. 

Under  normal  conditions  a  steep  dive 
imparts  a  feeling  of  being  hemmed  in  from 
every  side.  One  takes  a  deep  breath  in- 
stinctively,  and  the  novice  to  flying  will 
grip  the  fuselage,  as  if  to  avoid  being  crushed, 
And,  indeed,  a  passenger  in  a  diving  aero- 
plane is  hemmed  in,  by  the  terrific  air-pressure 
to  which  the  solid  surface  is  subjected.  If 
he  attempt  to  stand  up  or  lean  over  the 
side,  he  will  be  swept  back,  after  a  short 
struggle,  beneath  the  shelter  of  wind-screen 
and  fuselage.  But  when  diving  on  a  Hun, 
I  have  never  experienced  this  troubled  sensa- 
tion, probably  because  it  has  been  swamped 
under  the  high  tension  of  readiness  for  the 
task.  All  the  faculties  must  be  concentrated 
on  opening  the  attack,  since  an  air  duel  is 
often  decided  in  the  first  few  seconds  at 
close  quarters.     What  happens  during  these 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  55 

few  seconds  may  depend  on  a  trifle,  such 
as  the  position  of  the  gun-mounting,  an 
untried  drum  of  ammunition,  a  slight  swerve, 
or  firing  a  second  too  soon  or  too  late.  An 
air-man  should  regard  his  body  as  part  of 
the  machine  when  there  is  a  prospect  of  a 
fight,  and  his  brain,  which  commands  the 
machine,  must  be  instinctive  with  insight 
into  what  the  enemy  will  attempt. 

As  we  dived,  then,  I  estimated  the  angle 
at  which  we  might  cross  the  Boche  trio, 
watched  for  a  change  of  direction  on  their 
part,  slewed  round  the  gun-mounting  to  the 
most  effective  setting  for  what  would  prob- 
ably be  my  arc  of  fire,  and  fingered  the 
movable  back-sight.  At  first  the  Huns  held 
to  their  course  as  though  quite  unconcerned. 
Later,  they  began  to  lose  height.  Their 
downward  line  of  flight  became  steeper  and 
steeper,  and  so  did  ours. 

Just  as  our  leading  bus  arrived  within 
range  and  began  to  spit  bullets  through  the 
propeller,  a  signal  rocket  streaked  from  the 
first  Boche  biplane,  and  the  trio  dived  al- 
most vertically,  honking  the  while  on  Klaxon 
horns.     We  were  then  at  about  6000  feet. 


56       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

We  were  expecting  to  see  the  Huns  flatten 
out,  when — "Woujf!  wouff!  wouff!  wouff! 
wouff !if  said  Archie.  The  German  birds 
were  not  hawks  at  all;  they  were  merely 
tame  decoys  used  to  entice  us  to  a  pre- 
arranged spot,  at  a  height  well  favoured  by 
A.-A.  gunners.  The  ugly  puffs  encircled 
us,  and  it  seemed  unlikely  that  an  aero- 
plane could  get  away  without  being  caught 
in  a  patch  of  hurtling  high  explosive.  Yet 
nobody  was  hit.  The  only  redeeming  feature 
of  the  villain  Archibald  is  that  his  deeds 
are  less  terrible  than  his  noise,  and  even 
this  is  too  flat  to  be  truly  frightful.  Al- 
though I  was  uncomfortable  as  we  raced 
away,  the  chorused  wouffs!  reminded  me  of 
an  epidemic  of  coughing  I  heard  in  church 
one  winter's  Sunday,  while  a  fatuous  sermon 
was  read  by  a  dull-voiced  vicar. 

Mingled  with  the  many  black  bursts  were 
a  few  green  ones,  probably  gas  shells,  for 
Archie  had  begun  to  experiment  with  the 
gas  habit.  Very  suddenly  a  line  of  fiery 
rectangles  shot  up  and  curved  towards  us 
when  they  had  reached  three-quarters  of 
their  maximum  height.     They  rose  and  fell 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  57 

within  thirty  yards  of  our  tail.  These  were 
"onions,"  the  naming  rockets  which  the 
Boche  keeps  for  any  hostile  aircraft  that 
can  be  lured  to  a  height  between  4000  and 
6000  feet. 

I  yelled  to  V.,  my  pilot,  that  we  should 
have  to  dodge.  We  side-slipped  and  swerved 
to  the  left.  A  minute  later  the  stream  of 
onions  had  disappeared,  greatly  to  my  re- 
lief, for  the  prospect  of  a  fire  in  the  air  in- 
spires in  me  a  mortal  funk.  Soon  we  were 
to  pass  from  the  unpleasant  possibility  to 
the  far  more  unpleasant  reality. 

Once  outside  the  unhealthy  region,  we 
climbed  to  a  less  dangerous  height.  Again 
we  became  the  target  for  a  few  dozen  H.E. 
shells.  We  broke  away  and  swooped  down- 
ward. Some  little  distance  ahead,  and  not 
far  below,  was  a  group  of  five  Albatross 
two-seaters.  V.  pointed  our  machine  at 
them,  in  the  wake  of  the  flight-commander's 
bus. 

Next  instant  the  fuselage  shivered.  I 
looked  along  the  inside  of  it  and  found  that 
a  burning  shell  fragment  was  lodged  on  a 
longeron,  half-way  between  my  cockpit  and 


58       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  tail-plane.  A  little  flame  zigzagged  over 
the  fabric,  all  but  died  away,  but,  being 
fanned  by  the  wind  as  we  lost  height,  re- 
covered and  licked  its  way  toward  the  tail. 
I  was  too  far  away  to  reach  the  flame  with 
my  hands,  and  the  fire  extinguisher  was  by 
the  pilot's  seat.  I  called  for  it  into  the 
speaking-tube.  The  pilot  made  no  move. 
Once  more  I  shouted.  Again  no  answer. 
V.'s  ear-piece  had  slipped  from  under  his 
cap.  A  thrill  of  acute  fear  passed  through 
me  as  I  stood  up,  forced  my  arm  through 
the  rush  of  wind,  and  grabbed  V.'s  shoul- 
der. 

"Fuselage  burning!  Pass  the  fire  ex- 
tinguisher!" I  yelled. 

My  words  were  drowned  in  the  engine's 
roar;  and  the  pilot,  intent  on  getting  near 
the  Boches,  thought  I  had  asked  which  one 
we  were  to  attack. 

"Look   out  for   those   two   Huns   on   the 
left,"  he  called  over  his  shoulder. 
"Pass  the  fire  extinguisher!" 
"Get  ready  to  shoot,  blast  you!" 
"Fire  extinguisher,  you  ruddy  fool!" 
A  backward  glance  told  me  that  the  fire 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  59 

was  nearing  the  tail-plane  at  the  one  end 
and  my  box  of  ammunition  at  the  other, 
and  was  too  serious  for  treatment  by  the 
extinguisher  unless  I  could  get  it  at  once. 
Desperately  I  tried  to  force  myself  through 
the  bracing-struts  and  cross-wires  behind  my 
seat.  To  my  surprise,  head  and  shoulders 
and  one  arm  got  to  the  other  side — a  curious 
circumstance,  as  afterwards  I  tried  repeatedly 
to  repeat  this  contortionist  trick  on  the 
ground,  but  failed  every  time.  There  I 
stuck,  for  it  was  impossible  to  wriggle  farther. 
However,  I  could  now  reach  part  of  the  fire, 
and  at  it  I  beat  with  gloved  hands.  Within 
half  a  minute  most  of  the  fire  was  crushed 
to  death.  But  a  thin  streak  of  flame,  out- 
side the  radius  of  my  arm,  still  flickered 
towards  the  tail.  I  tore  off  one  of  my  gaunt- 
lets and  swung  it  furiously  on  to  the  burn- 
ing strip.  The  flame  lessened,  rose  again 
when  I  raised  the  glove,  but  died  out  alto- 
gether after  I  had  hit  it  twice  more.  The 
load  of  fear  left  me,  and  I  discovered  an 
intense  discomfort,  wedged  in  as  I  was 
between  the  two  crossed  bracing-struts.  Five 
minutes    passed    before    I    was    able,    with 


60       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

many  a  heave  and  gasp,  to  withdraw  back 
to  my  seat. 

By  now  we  were  at  close  grips  with  the 
enemy,  and  our  machine  and  another  con- 
verged on  a  Hun.  V.  was  firing  industri- 
ously. As  we  turned,  he  glared  at  me, 
and  knowing  nothing  of  the  fire,  shouted: 
"Why  the  hell  haven't  you  fired  yet?"  I 
caught  sight  of  a  Boche  bus  below  us,  aimed 
at  it,  and  emptied  a  drum  in  short  bursts. 
It  swept  away,  but  not  before  two  of  the 
German  observer's  bullets  had  plugged  our 
petrol  tank  from  underneath.  The  pressure 
went,  and  with  it  the  petrol  supply.  The 
needle  on  the  rev. -counter  quivered  to  the 
left  as  the  revolutions  dropped,  and  the 
engine  missed  on  first  one,  then  two  cylin- 
ders. V.  turned  us  round,  and,  with  nose 
down,  headed  the  machine  for  the  trenches. 
Just  then  the  engine  ceased  work  altogether, 
and  we  began  to  glide  down. 

All  this  happened  so  quickly  that  I  had 
scarcely  realised  our  plight.  Next  I  began 
to  calculate  our  chances  of  reaching  the 
lines  before  we  would  have  to  land.  Our 
height  was  9000  feet,  and  we  were  just  over 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  61 

nine  and  a  half  miles  from  friendly  territory. 
Reckoning  the  gliding  possibilities  of  our 
type  of  bus  as  a  mile  to  a  thousand  feet, 
the  odds  seemed  unfavourable.  On  the 
other  hand,  a  useful  wind  had  arisen  from 
the  east,  and  V.,  a  very  skilful  pilot,  would 
certainly  cover  all  the  distance  that  could 
be  covered. 

I  located  our  exact  position  and  searched 
the  map  for  the  nearest  spot  in  the  lines. 
The  village  of  Bouchavesnes  was  a  fraction 
south  of  due  west,  and  I  remembered  that 
the  French  had  stormed  it  two  days  pre- 
viously. From  the  shape  of  the  line  before 
this  advance,  there  was  evidently  a  small 
salient,  with  Bouchavesnes  in  the  middle  of 
the  curve.  I  scribbled  this  observation  on  a 
scrap  of  paper,  which  I  handed  to  V.  with 
the  compass  direction.  V.  checked  my  state- 
ments on  the  map,  nodded  over  his  shoulder, 
and  set  a  course  for  Bouchavesnes. 

Could  we  do  it?  I  prayed  to  the  gods 
and  trusted  to  the  pilot.  Through  my  mind 
there  flitted  impossible  plans  to  be  tried  if 
we  landed  in  Boche  territory.  After  setting 
fire   to   the   machine  we  would   attempt  to 


62       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

hide,  and  then,  at  night-time,  creep  along 
a  communication  trench  to  the  enemy  front 
line,  jump  across  it  in  a  gap  between  the 
sentries,  and  chance  getting  by  the  barbed 
wire  and  across  No  Man's  Land.  Or  we 
would  steal  to  the  Somme,  float  down-stream, 
and  somehow  or  other  pass  the  entangle- 
ments placed  across  the  river  by  the  enemy. 
Wouff!  woujf!  Archie  was  complicating  the 
odds. 

Further  broodings  were  checked  by  the 
sudden  appearance  of  a  German  scout.  Tak- 
ing advantage  of  our  plight,  its  pilot  dived 
steeply  from  a  point  slightly  behind  us.  We 
could  not  afford  to  lose  any  distance  by 
dodging,  so  V.  did  the  only  thing  possible — 
he  kept  straight  on.  I  raised  my  gun,  aimed 
at  the  wicked-looking  nose  of  the  attacking 
craft,  and  met  it  with  a  barrage  of  bullets. 
These  must  have  worried  the  Boche,  for  he 
swerved  aside  when  a  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  distant,  and  did  not  flatten  out  until 
he  was  beneath  the  tail  of  our  machine. 
Afterwards  he  climbed  away  from  us,  turned, 
and  dived  once  more.  For  a  second  time  we 
escaped,  owing  either  to   some  lucky  shots 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  63 

from  my  gun  or  to  the  lack  of  judgment  by 
the  Hun  pilot.  The  scout  pulled  up  and 
passed  ahead  of  us.  It  rose  and  manoeuvred 
as  if  to  dive  from  the  front  and  bar  the  way. 

Meanwhile,  four  specks,  approaching  from 
the  west,  had  grown  larger  and  larger,  until 
they  were  revealed  as  of  the  F.E.  type — the 
British  "pusher"  two-seater.  The  Boche 
saw  them,  and  hesitated  as  they  bore  down 
on  him.  Finding  himself  in  the  position  of  a 
lion  attacked  by  hunters  when  about  to 
pounce  on  a  tethered  goat,  he  decided  not  to 
destroy,  for  in  so  doing  he  would  have  laid 
himself  open  to  destruction.  When  I  last 
saw  him  he  was  racing  north-east. 

There  was  now  no  obstacle  to  the  long 
glide.  As  we  went  lower,  the  torn  ground 
showed  up  plainly.  From  2000  feet  I  could 
almost  count  the  shell-holes.  Two  battery 
positions  came  into  view,  and  near  one  of 
them  I  saw  tracks  and  could  distinguish 
movements  by  a  few  tiny  dots.  It  became 
evident  that,  barring  accident,  we  should 
reach  the  French  zone. 

When  slightly  behind  the  trenches  a  con- 
fused chatter  from  below  told  us  that  ma- 


64   CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS! 

chine-guns  were  trained  on  the  machine.  By 
way  of  retaliation,  I  leaned  over  and  shot  at 
what  looked  like  an  emplacement.  Then 
came  the  Boche  front  line,  ragged  and  un- 
kempt. I  fired  along  an  open  trench.  Al- 
though far  from  fearless  as  a  rule,  I  was 
not  in  the  least  afraid  during  the  eventful 
glide.  My  state  of  intense  "wind  up"  while 
the  fuselage  was  burning  had  apparently  ex- 
hausted my  stock  of  nervousness.  I  seemed 
detached  from  all  idea  of  danger,  and  the 
desolated  German  trench  area  might  have 
been  a  side-show  at  a  fair. 

We  swept  by  No  Man's  Land  at  a  height 
of  600  feet,  crossed  the  French  first-  and 
second-line  trenches,  and,  after  passing  a 
small  ridge,  prepared  to  settle  on  an  uneven 
plateau  covered  by  high  bracken.  To  avoid 
landing  down  wind  and  down-hill,  the  pilot 
banked  to  the  right  before  he  flattened  out. 
The  bus  pancaked  gently  to  earth,  ran  over 
the  bracken,  and  stopped  two  yards  from  a 
group  of  shell-holes.  Not  a  wire  was  broken. 
The  propeller  had  been  scored  by  the 
bracken,  but  the  landing  was  responsible  for 
no  other  damage.    Taking  into  consideration 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  65 

the  broken  ground,  the  short  space  at  our 
disposal,  and  the  fact  that  we  landed  cross- 
wind,  V.  had  exhibited  wonderful  skill. 

We  climbed  out,  relieved  but  cantanker- 
ous. V.,  still  ignorant  of  the  fire,  wanted 
to  know  why  my  gun  was  silent  during  our 
first  fight;  and  I  wanted  to  know  why  he 
hadn't  shut  off  the  engine  and  listened  when 
I  shouted  for  the  fire  extinguisher.  Some 
French  gunners  ran  to  meet  us.  The  sight 
that  met  them  must  have  seemed  novel,  even 
to  a  poilu  of  two  and  a  half  years'  under- 
standing. 

Supposing  that  the  aeroplane  had  crashed, 
they  came  to  see  if  we  were  dead  or  injured. 
What  they  found  was  one  almost  complete 
aeroplane  and  two  leather-coated  figures,  who 
cursed  each  other  heartily  as  they  stood  side 
by  side,  and  performed  a  certain  natural 
function  which  is  publicly  represented  in 
Brussels  by  a  famous  little  statue. 

"Quels  types!"  said  the  first  Frenchman 
to  arrive. 

An  examination  of  the  bus  revealed  a  fair 
crop  of  bullet  holes  through  the  wings  and 
elevator.     A  large  gap  in  one  side  of  the 


66       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

fuselage,  over  a  longeron  that  was  charred 
to  powder  in  parts,  bore  witness  to  the  fire. 
Petrol  was  dripping  from  the  spot  where  the 
tank  had  been  perforated.  On  taking  a  tin 
of  chocolate  from  his  pocket,  V.  found  it 
ripped  and  gaping.  He  searched  the  pocket 
and  discovered  a  bright  bullet  at  the  bottom. 
We  traced  the  adventures  of  that  bullet;  it 
had  grazed  a  strut,  cut  right  through  the 
petrol  union,  and  expended  itself  on  the 
chocolate  tin. 

Soon  our  attention  was  attracted  to  sev- 
eral French  machines  that  were  passing 
through  a  barrage  of  Archie  bursts.  The 
bombardment  of  an  aeroplane  arouses  only 
the  sporting  instinct  of  the  average  soldier. 
His  interest,  though  keen,  is  directed  to- 
wards the  quality  of  the  shooting  and  the 
distance  of  the  shells  for  their  target;  his 
attitude  when  watching  a  pigeon-shoot  would 
be  much  the  same.  But  an  airman  has 
experience  of  what  the  aeroplane  crews  must 
be  going  through,  and  his  thought  is  all  for 
them.  He  knows  that  dull,  loud  cough  of 
an  Archie  shell,  the  hiss  of  a  flying  frag- 
ment, the  wicked  black  puffs  that  creep  to- 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  67 

wards  their  mark  and  follow  it,  no  matter 
where  the  pilot  may  swerve.  Should  a 
friendly  machine  tumble  to  earth  after  that 
rare  occurrence,  a  direct  hit,  all  the  sensations 
of  an  uncontrolled  nose-dive  are  suggested  to 
his  senses.  He  hears  the  shriek  of  the  up- 
rushing  air,  feels  the  helpless  terror.  It 
hurts  him  to  know  that  he  is  powerless  to 
save  a  friend  from  certain  death.  He  can- 
not even  withdraw  his  eyes  from  the  falling 
craft.  I  was  glad  we  had  not  viewed  the 
disaster  while  we  were  in  the  air,  for  nothing 
is  more  unnerving  than  to  see  another  ma- 
chine crumbled  up  by  a  direct  hit  when 
Archie  is  firing  at  yourself. 

"Me,"  said  a  French  gunner  by  my  side, 
C*I  prefer  the  artillery."  With  which  senti- 
ment I  have  often  agreed  when  dodging 
Archie,  though  at  every  other  time  I  prefer 
the  Flying  Corps  work  to  all  other  kinds  of 
fighting. 

V.  disappeared  to  phone  the  Squadron 
Commander,  and  I  was  left  with  the  crippled 
bus  and  the  crowd  of  Frenchmen.  The  poilus 
questioned  me  on  subjects  ranging  from  the 
customary  length  of  a  British  officer's  mous- 


68       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

tache  to  the  possible  length  of  the  war.  Yes, 
we  had  been  hit  in  a  fight  with  Boche  aero- 
planes. Yes,  there  had  also  been  a  slight  fire 
on  board.  Yes,  I  had  great  fear  at  the  time. 
Yes,  I  would  accept  a  cigarette  with  pleasure. 
No,  it  was  untrue  that  England  contained 
four  million  civilian  embusques  of  military 
age.  No,  the  report  that  officers  of  the 
British  Flying  Corps  received  fifty  francs  a 
day  was  inaccurate,  unfortunately.  But  no, 
my  good-for-nothing  opinion  was  that  we 
should  not  finish  the  Boche  within  a  year; 
and  so  on. 

"How  is  it,"  said  one  man  in  faded  uni- 
form, "that  the  British  always  manage  to 
keep  themselves  correct  and  shaven?" 

"La  barbe!"  interrupted  another;  "the 
Tommies  don't  keep  clean  on  the  Somme. 
Even  the  lilies  of  the  etat-majeur  can't." 
And  he  began  to  quote: 

"Si  ma  fi-fi-fiancee  me  voyait, 
Elle  m'  d i rait  en  me  dormant  cinq  sous: 
*Va  t'  faire  raser!'  mais  moi,  j'  repondrais 
Que  moi  j'ai  toujours  les  memes  deux  joues." 

V.  was  away  for  an  hour  and  a  half  and 
when  he  did  return  it  was  to  announce  that 


A  SUMMER  JOY-RIDE  69 

he  had  been  unable  to  phone  because  the 
line  was  blocked  under  pressure  of  impor- 
tant operations.  Deciding  to  report  in  per- 
son, we  declined  an  offer  of  hospitality  from 
the  French  officers,  but  gratefully  accepted  a 
guard  for  the  machine,  and  the  loan  of  a 
car. 

A  young  lieutenant  accompanied  us  as  far 
as  Amiens.  There  we  stopped  for  supper, 
and  were  joined  by  some  civilian  friends  of 
our  French  companion.  The  filet  de  sole  an 
vin  blanc  engendered  a  feeling  of  deep  con- 
tent. Now  that  it  was  over,  I  felt  pleased 
with  the  day's  excitement  and  the  contrast 
it  afforded.  Three  hours  beforehand  it 
seemed  likely  that  the  evening  would  see  us 
prisoners.  Yet  here  we  were,  supping  in  a 
comfortable  hotel  with  three  charming  ladies 
and  the  widow  Clicquot. 

Arrived  at  the  aerodrome,  we  visited  the 
hut  inhabited  by  the  Squadron  Commander* 
who  wore  pyjamas  and  a  smile  of  welcome. 
We  were  just  in  time,  he  said,  to  rescue  our 
names  from  the  list  of  missing.  Our  tale 
impressed  him  so  much  that,  after  making 
arrangements   for   the   stranded   bus   to   be 


70       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

brought  back  by  a  repair  party,  he  remarked : 
"You  can  both  have  a  rest  to-morrow." 

"Welcome  home,  you  rotten  night-bird," 
said  my  tent  companion,  and  mentioned  in  a 
hurt  tone  that  our  flight  was  booked  for  the 
5  a.m.  reconnaissance.  But  my  last  thought 
before  sinking  into  sleep  was  of  the  blessed 
words:  "You  can  have  a  rest  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SPYING   OUT   THE   LAND. 

For  thirty  hours  the  flight  had  "stood  by" 
for  a  long  reconnaissance.  We  were  dragged 
from  bed  at  4.30  of  dawn,  only  to  return 
gratefully  beneath  the  blankets  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  later,  when  a  slight  but  steady 
rain  washed  away  all  chance  of  an  imme- 
diate job.  The  drizzle  continued  until  after 
sundown,  and  our  only  occupations  through- 
out the  day  were  to  wade  from  mess  to  aero- 
drome, aerodrome  to  mess,  and  to  overhaul 
in  detail  machines,  maps,  guns,  and  con- 
sciences. 

Next  morning  again  we  dressed  in  the 
half-light,  and  again  went  back  to  bed  in 
the  daylight.  This  time  the  show  had  been 
postponed  because  of  low  clouds  and  a  thick 
ground-mist  that  hung  over  the  reeking  earth. 
It  was  a  depressing  dawn — clammy,  moist, 
and  sticky. 

But  by  early  afternoon  the  mist  had  con- 
gealed, and  the  sheet  of  clouds  was  torn  to 

71 


72       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

rags  by  a  strong  south-west  wind.  The  four 
craft  detailed  for  the  reconnaissance  were 
therefore  lined  outside  their  shed,  while  their 
crews  waited  for  flying  orders.  I  was  to  be 
in  the  leading  bus,  for  when  C.'s  death  left 
vacant  the  command  of  A  Flight,  the  good 
work  of  my  pilot  had  brought  him  a  flight- 
commandership,  a  three-pipped  tunic,  and  a 
sense  of  responsibility  which,  to  my  relief, 
checked  his  tendency  to  over-recklessness. 
He  now  came  from  the  squadron  office  with 
news  of  a  changed  course. 

"To  get  the  wind  behind  us,"  he  ex- 
plained, "we  shall  cross  well  to  the  south 
of  Peronne.  Next,  we  go  to  Boislens.  After 
that  we  pass  by  Nimporte,  over  the  Foret 
de  Charbon  to  Siegecourt;  then  up  to  Le 
Recul  and  back  by  Princebourg,  St.  Guil- 
laume,  and  Toutpres. 

"As  regards  the  observers,  don't  forget  to 
use  your  field-glasses  on  the  rolling  stock; 
don't  forget  the  precise  direction  of  trains 
and  motor  transport;  don't  forget  the  rail- 
ways and  roads  on  every  side;  don't  forget 
the  canals;  and  for  the  Lord's  and  every- 
body else's  sake,  don't  be  surprised  by  Hun 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND         73 

aircraft.  As  regards  the  pilots — keep  in 
close  formation  when  possible;  don't  straggle 
and  don't  climb  above  the  proper  height." 

The  pilots  ran  their  engines  once  more, 
and  the  observers  exchanged  information 
about  items  such  as  Hun  aerodromes  and 
the  number  of  railway  stations  at  each  large 
town.  An  air  reconnaissance  is  essentially 
the  observer's  show;  its  main  object  being  to 
supply  the  "I"  people  at  headquarters  with 
private  bulletins  from  the  back  of  the  Ger- 
man front.  The  collection  of  reconnaissance 
reports  is  work  of  a  highly  skilled  nature,  or 
ought  to  be.  Spying  out  the  land  is  much 
more  than  a  search  of  railways,  roads,  and 
the  terrain  generally.  The  experienced  ob- 
server must  know  the  German  area  over 
which  he  works  rather  better  than  he  knows 
Salisbury  Plain.  The  approximate  position 
of  railway  junctions  and  stations,  aerodromes, 
factories,  and  depots  should  be  familiar  to 
him,  so  that  he  can  without  difficulty  spot 
any  new  feature.  Also  he  must  be  some- 
thing of  a  sleuth,  particularly  when  using 
smoke  as  a  clue.  In  the  early  morning  a 
thin  layer  of  smoke  above  a  wood  may  mean 


74       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

a  bivouac.  If  it  be  but  a  few  miles  behind 
the  lines,  it  can  evidence  heavy  artillery.  A 
narrow  stream  of  smoke  near  a  railway  will 
make  an  observer  scan  the  line  closely  for  a 
stationary  train,  as  the  Boche  engine-drivers 
usually  try  to  avoid  detection  by  shutting 
off  steam.  The  Hun  has  many  other  dodges 
to  avoid  publicity.  When  Allied  aircraft  ap- 
pear, motor  and  horse  transport  remain  im- 
mobile at  the  roadside  or  under  trees. 
Artillery  and  infantry  are  packed  under 
cover;  though,  for  that  matter,  the  enemy 
very  rarely  move  troops  in  the  daytime, 
preferring  the  night  or  early  morning,  when 
there  are  no  troublesome  eyes  in  the  air. 

To  foil  these  attempts  at  concealment  is 
the  business  of  the  observers  who  gather 
information  for  Army  Headquarters  and  G. 
H.Q.  For  observers  on  corps  work  the  de- 
tective problems  are  somewhat  different. 
This  department  deals  with  hidden  saps  and 
battery  positions,  and  draws  and  photo- 
graphs conclusions  from  clues  such  as  a 
muz»le-blast,  fresh  tracks,  or  an  artificial 
cluster  of  trees.  All  reconnaissance  observers 
must  carry  out  a  simultaneous  search  of  the 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND         75 

earth  for  movement  and  the  sky  for  foes, 
and  in  addition  keep  their  guns  ready  for 
instant  use.  And  should  anything  happen  to 
their  machines,  and  a  forced  landing  seem 
likely,  they  must  sit  tight  and  carry  on  so 
long  as  there  is  the  slightest  hope  of  a  safe 
return. 

A  nos  moutons.  I  made  a  long  list  in 
my  note-book  of  the  places  where  some- 
thing useful  was  likely  to  be  observed,  and 
tried  my  gun  by  firing  a  few  shots  into  the 
ground.  We  hung  around,  impatient  at  the 
long  delay. 

"Get  into  your  machines/'  called  the 
Squadron  Commander  at  last,  when  a  tele- 
phone message  had  reported  that  the  weather 
conditions  toward  the  east  were  no  longer 
unfavourable.  We  took  to  the  air  and  set 
off. 

V.  led  his  covey  beyond  Albert  and  well 
south  of  the  Somme  before  he  turned  to  the 
left.  Then,  with  the  strong  wind  behind  us, 
we  raced  north-east  and  crossed  the  strip  of 
trenches.  The  pilot  of  the  emergency  ma- 
chine, which  had  come  thus  far  to  join  the 
party  if  one  of  the  other  four  dropped  out, 


76       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

waved  his  hand  in  farewell  and  left  for  home. 

Archie  barked  at  us  immediately,  but  he 
caused  small  trouble,  as  most  of  his  atten- 
tion was  already  claimed  by  a  party  of 
French  machines  half  a  mile  ahead.  Any- 
how we  should  have  shaken  him  off  quickly, 
for  at  this  stage  of  the  journey,  with  a  forty- 
mile  wind  reinforcing  our  usual  air  speed 
of  about  ninety-five  miles  an  hour,  our 
ground  speed  was  sufficient  to  avoid  linger- 
ing in  any  region  made  unhealthy  by  A. -A. 
guns.  The  water-marked  ribbon  of  trenches 
seemed  altogether  puny  and  absurd  during 
the  few  seconds  when  it  was  within  sight. 
The  winding  Somme  was  dull  and  dirty  as 
the  desolation  of  its  surrounding  basin.  Some 
four  thousand  feet  above  the  ground  a  few 
clouds  moved  restlessly  at  the  bidding  of 
the  wind. 

Passing  a  few  small  woods,  we  arrived 
without  interruption  over  the  railway  junc- 
tion of  Boislens.  With  arms  free  of  the 
machine  to  avoid  unnecessary  vibration,  the 
observers  trained  their  glasses  on  the  station 
and  estimated  the  amount  of  rolling  stock. 
A  close  search  of  the  railway  arteries  only 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND         77 

revealed  one  train.  I  grabbed  pencil  and 
note-book  and  wrote:  "Boislens,  3.5  p.m.  6 
R.S.,  1  train  going  S.W." 

Just  west  of  our  old  friend  Mossy-Face 
were  two  rows  of  flagrantly  new  trenches. 
As  this  is  one  of  the  points  where  the  enemy 
made  a  stand  after  their  1917  spring  retreat, 
it  can  be  assumed  that  even  as  far  back  as 
last  October  they  were  preparing  new  lines 
of  defence,  Hindenburg  or  otherwise.  Not 
far  west  of  these  defence  works  were  two 
troublesome  aerodromes  at  Bertincourt  and 
Velu,  both  of  which  places  have  since  been 
captured. 

A  hunt  for  an  aerodrome  followed.  V., 
who  knew  the  neighbourhood  well,  having 
passed  above  it  some  two-score  times,  was 
quick  to  spot  a  group  of  hitherto  unnoted 
sheds  north  of  Boislens,  towards  Mossy- 
Face.  He  circled  over  them  to  let  me  plot 
the  pin-point  position  on  the  map  and  sketch 
the  aerodrome  and  its  surroundings.  The 
Hun  pilots,  with  thoughts  of  a  possible  bomb- 
raid,  began  to  take  their  machines  into  the 
air  for  safety. 

"Got  'em  all?"    Thus  V.,  shouting  through 


78       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  rubber  speaking-tube,  one  end  of  which 
was  fixed  inside  my  flying-cap,  so  that  it 
always  rested  against  my  ear. 

"Correct.  Get  on  with  the  good  work." 
The  good  work  led  us  over  a  region  for 
ever  associated  with  British  arms.  Some 
of  the  towns  brought  bitter  memories  of 
that  anxious  August  three  years  back.  Thus 
Nimporte,  which  saw  a  desperate  but  suc- 
cessful stand  on  one  flank  of  the  contempti- 
ble little  army  to  gain  time  for  the  main 
body;  Ventregris,  scene  of  a  cavalry  charge 
that  was  a  glorious  tragedy;  Labas,  where  a 
battery  of  horse-gunners  made  for  itself  an 
imperishable  name;  Siegecourt,  where  the 
British  might  have  retired  into  a  trap  but 
didn't;  and  Le  Recul  itself,  whence  they 
slipped  away  just  in  time. 

In  the  station  at  Nimporte  a  train  was 
waiting  to  move  off,  and  two  more  were  on 
their  way  to  the  military  base  of  Pluspres. 
Both  attempted  to  hide  their  heads  by  shut- 
ting off  steam  immediately  the  drone  of  our 
engines  made  itself  heard ;  but  we  had  spotted 
them  from  afar,  and  already  they  were  noted 
for  the  information  of  Brass  Hats. 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND         79 

The  next  item  of  interest  was  activity  at 
a  factory  outside  a  little  town.  Black  trails 
of  smoke  stretched  away  from  the  chimneys; 
and  surely,  as  we  approached  a  minute  ago, 
a  short  column  of  lorries  was  passing  along 
a  road  towards  the  factory.  Yet  when  we 
reached  the  spot  there  was  no  sign  of  road 
transport.  Nevertheless,  I  was  certain  I  had 
seen  some  motor  vehicles,  and  I  entered  the 
fact  in  my  note-book.  Likewise  I  took  care 
to  locate  the  factory  site  on  my  map,  in 
case  it  deserved  the  honour  of  a  bomb  attack 
later. 

Our  bus  led  the  way  across  the  huge  un- 
wieldy Foret  de  Charbon,  patterned  in  rec- 
tangular fashion  by  intersecting  roads,  and 
we  arrived  at  Siegecourt.  This  is  at  once 
a  fortress  and  an  industrial  town.  There  are 
several  railway  stations  around  it,  and  these 
added  greatly  to  the  observers'  collection  of 
trains  and  trucks.  The  Huns  below,  with 
unpleasant  memories  of  former  visits  from 
British  aircraft,  probably  expected  to  be 
bombed.  They  threw  up  at  us  a  large  quan- 
tity of  high-explosive  shells,  but  the  shots 
were  all  wide  and  we  remained  unworried. 


80       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

To  judge  by  the  quality  of  the  A. -A.  shoot- 
ing each  time  I  called  there,  it  seemed  likely 
that  half -trained  A.-A.  gunners  were  allowed 
to  cut  their  active  service  teeth  on  us  at 
Siegecourt. 

Having  squeezed  Siegecourt  of  all  move- 
ment, we  headed  for  Le  Recul.  Here  the 
intricate  patchwork  of  railway  kept  the  ob- 
servers busy,  and  six  more  trains  were 
bagged.  Then,  as  this  was  the  farthest  point 
east  to  be  touched,  we  turned  to  the  left  and 
travelled  homeward. 

It  was  soon  afterwards  that  our  engine 
went  dud.  Instead  of  a  rhythmic  and  con- 
tinuous hum  there  was  at  regular  intervals 
a  break,  caused  by  one  of  the  cylinders 
missing  explosion  at  each  turn  of  the  rotary 
engine.  The  rev. -counter  showed  that  the 
number  of  revolutions  per  minute  had  fallen 
off  appreciably.  Decreased  revs,  meant  less 
speed,  and  our  only  chance  to  keep  with  the 
others  was  to  lose  height  continuously.  We 
were  then  nearly  fifty  miles  from  the  lines. 

I  noticed  the  gap  in  the  engine's  drone  as 
soon  as  it  began.  An  airman  is  accustomed 
to  the  full  roar  of  his  engine,  and  it  never 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND         81 

distracts  his  attention,  any  more  than  the 
noise  of  a  waterfall  distracts  those  who  live 
near  it.  But  if  the  roar  becomes  non-con- 
tinuous and  irregular  he  is  acutely  conscious 
of  the  sound. 

When  the  machine  began  to  lose  height 
I  knew  there  was  a  chronic  miss.  V.  looked 
round  and  smiled  reassuringly,  though  he 
himself  was  far  from  reassured.  He  tried 
an  alteration  in  the  carburettor  mixture,  but 
this  did  not  remedy  matters.  Next,  think- 
ing that  the  engine  might  have  been  slightly 
choked,  he  cut  off  the  petrol  supply  for  a 
moment  and  put  down  the  nose  of  the  ma- 
chine. The  engine  stopped,  but  picked  up 
when  the  petrol  was  once  more  allowed  to 
run.  During  the  interval  I  thought  the 
engine  had  ceased  work  altogether,  and  was 
about  to  stuff  things  into  my  pocket  in  readi- 
ness for  a  landing  on  hostile  ground. 

We  continued  in  a  westerly  direction,  with 
the  one  cylinder  still  cutting  out.  To  make 
matters  worse,  the  strong  wind  that  had 
been  our  friend  on  the  outward  journey 
was  now  an  enemy,  for  it  was  drifting  us 
to  the   north,   so   that   we  were  obliged  to 


82       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

steer  almost  dead  into  it  to  follow  the  set 
course. 

As  we  passed  along  the  straight  canal 
from  Le  Recul  to  Princebourg  many  barges 
were  in  evidence.  Those  at  the  side  of  the 
canal  were  taken  to  be  moored  up,  and  those 
in  the  middle  to  be  moving,  though  the  slow- 
ness of  their  speed  made  it  impossible  to 
decide  on  their  direction,  for  from  a  height  of 
ten  thousand  feet  they  seemed  to  be  sta- 
tionary. About  a  dozen  Hun  machines  were 
rising  from  aerodromes  at  Passementerie, 
away  to  the  left,  but  if  they  were  after  us 
the  attempt  to  reach  our  height  in  time  was 
futile. 

Between  Le  Recul  and  Princebourg  we 
dropped  fifteen  hundred  feet  below  the  three 
rear  machines,  which  hovered  above  us. 
Though  I  was  far  from  feeling  at  home,  it 
was  necessary  to  sweep  the  surrounding 
country  for  transport  of  all  kinds.  This  was 
done  almost  automatically,  since  I  found 
myself  unable  to  give  a  whole-hearted  atten- 
tion to  the  job,  while  the  infernal  motif  of 
the  engine's  ragtime  drone  dominated  every- 
thing and  invited  speculation  on  how  much 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND         83 

lower  we  were  than  the  others,  and  whether 
we  were  likely  to  reach  a  friendly  landing- 
ground.  And  all  the  while  a  troublesome 
verse  chose  very  inopportunely  to  race  across 
the  background  of  my  mind,  in  time  with  the 
engine,  each  cut-out  being  the  end  of  a  line. 
Once  or  twice  I  caught  myself  murmuring — 

"In  that  poor  but  honest  'ome, 
Where  'er  sorrowin'  parints  live, 
They  drink  the  shampyne  wine  she  sends, 
But  never,  never  can  fergive." 

Slightly  to  the  east  of  Princebourg,  a  new 
complication  appeared  in  the  shape  of  a 
small  German  machine.  Seeing  that  our 
bus  was  in  difficulties,  it  awaited  an  oppor- 
tunity to  pounce,  and  remained  at  a  height 
slightly  greater  than  ours,  but  some  distance 
behind  the  bus  that  acted  as  rearguard  to 
the  party.  Its  speed  must  have  been  about 
ten  miles  an  hour  more  than  our  own,  for 
though  the  Hun  pilot  had  probably  throttled 
down,  he  was  obliged  to  make  his  craft  snake 
its  way  in  short  curves,  so  that  it  should  not 
come  within  dangerous  range  of  our  guns. 
At  times  he  varied  this  method  by  lifting 
the  machine  almost  to  stalling  point,  letting 


84        CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

her  down  again,  and  repeating  the  process. 
Once  I  saw  some  motor  transport  on  a  road. 
I  leaned  over  the  side  to  estimate  their  num- 
ber, but  gave  up  the  task  of  doing  so  with 
accuracy  under  the  double  strain  of  watch- 
ing the  Hun  scout  and  listening  to  the  jerky 
voice  of  the  engine. 

As  we  continued  to  drop,  the  German 
evidently  decided  to  finish  us.  He  climbed 
a  little  and  then  rushed  ahead.  I  fired  at 
him  in  rapid  bursts,  but  he  kept  to  his  course. 
He  did  not  come  near  enough  for  a  dive, 
however,  as  the  rest  of  the  party,  two  thou- 
sand feet  above,  had  watched  his  movements, 
and  as  soon  as  he  began  to  move  nearer  two 
of  them  fell  towards  him.  Seeing  that  his 
game  was  spoiled  the  Boche  went  down 
steeply,  and  only  flattened  out  when  he  was 
low  enough  to  be  safe  from  attack. 

Near  St  Guillaume  an  anti-aircraft  bat- 
tery opened  fire.  The  Hun  pilot  then 
thought  it  better  to  leave  Archie  to  deal 
with  us,  and  he  annoyed  us  no  more.  Some 
of  the  shell-bursts  were  quite  near,  but  we 
could  not  afford  to  lose  height  in  distance- 
dodging,  with  our  machine  in  a  dubious  con- 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND         85 

dition  twenty-five  miles  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  trenches. 

Toutpres,  to  the  south-west,  was  to  have 
been  included  in  the  list  of  towns  covered, 
but  under  the  adverse  circumstances  V.  de- 
cided not  to  battle  against  the  wind  more 
than  was  necessary  to  get  us  home.  He 
therefore  veered  to  the  right,  and  steered 
due  west.  The  south-west  wind  cut  across 
and  drifted  us,  so  that  our  actual  course  was 
north-west.  Our  ground  speed  was  now  & 
good  deal  greater  than  if  we  had  travelled 
directly  west,  and  there  was  no  extra  dis- 
tance to  be  covered,  because  of  a  large  east- 
ward bend  in  the  lines  as  they  wound  north. 
We  skirted  the  ragged  Foret  de  Quand- 
Meme,  and  passed  St  Guillaume  on  our  left. 

The  behaviour  of  the  engine  went  from 
bad  to  worse,  and  the  vibration  became 
more  and  more  intense.  Once  again  I 
thought  it  would  peter  out  before  we  were 
within  gliding  distance  of  British  territory, 
and  I  therefore  made  ready  to  burn  the 
machine — the  last  duty  of  an  airman  let 
in  for  the  catastrophe  of  a  landing  among 
enemies.      But   the   engine    kept   alive,    ob- 


86       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

stinately  and  unevenly.  V.  held  down  the 
nose  of  the  machine  still  farther,  so  as  to 
gain  the  lines  in  the  quickest  possible  time. 

Soon  we  were  treated  to  a  display  by  the 
family  ghost  of  the  clan  Archibald,  other- 
wise an  immense  pillar  of  grey-white  smoky 
substance  that  appeared  very  suddenly  to 
windward  of  us.  It  stretched  up  vertically 
from  the  ground  to  a  height  about  level 
with  ours,  which  was  then  only  five  and  a 
half  thousand  feet.  We  watched  it  curiously 
as  it  stood  in  an  unbending  rigidity  similar 
to  that  of  a  gaint  waxwork,  cold,  unnatural, 
stupidly  implacable,  half  unbelievable,  and 
wholly  ridiculous.  At  the  top  it  sprayed 
round,  like  a  stick  of  asparagus.  For  two 
or  three  months  similar  apparitions  had  been 
exhibited  to  us  at  rare  intervals,  nearly  al- 
ways in  the  same  neighbourhood.  At  first 
sight  the  pillars  of  smoke  seemed  not  to 
disperse,  but  after  an  interval  they  appar- 
ently faded  away  as  mysteriously  as  they 
had  appeared.  What  was  meant  to  be  their 
particular  branch  of  Rightfulness  I  cannot 
say.  One  rumour  was  that  they  were  an 
experiment   in    aerial   gassing,    and    another 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND  87 

that  they  were  of  some  phosphorus  com- 
pound. All  I  know  is  that  they  entertained 
us  from  time  to  time,  with  no  apparent 
damage. 

Archie  quickly  distracted  our  attention 
from  the  phantom  pillar.  We  had  been 
drifted  to  just  south  of  Lille,  possibly  the 
hottest  spot  on  the  whole  western  front  as 
regards  anti-aircraft  fire.  Seeing  one  ma- 
chine four  to  five  thousand  feet  below  its 
companions,  the  gunners  very  naturally  con- 
centrated on  it.  A  spasmodic  chorus  of 
barking  coughs  drowned  the  almost  equally 
spasmodic  roar  of  the  engine.  V.  dodged 
steeply  and  then  raced,  full  out,  for  the  lines. 
A  sight  of  the  dirty  brown  jig-saw  of  trenches 
heartened  us  greatly.  A  few  minutes  later 
we  were  within  gliding  distance  of  the  Brit- 
ish front.  When  we  realised  that  even  if 
the  engine  lost  all  life  we  could  reach  safety, 
nothing  else  seemed  to  matter,  not  even  the 
storm  of  shell-bursts. 

Suddenly  the  machine  quivered,  swung  to 
the  left,  and  nearly  put  itself  in  a  flat  spin. 
A  large  splinter  of  H.E.  had  sliced  away 
part  of  the  rudder.     V.  banked  to  prevent 


88       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

an  uncontrolled  side-slip,  righted  the  bus  as 
far  as  possible,  and  dived  for  the  lines.  These 
we  passed  at  a  great  pace,  but  we  did  not 
shake  off  Archie  until  well  on  the  right  side, 
for  at  our  low  altitude  the  high-angle  guns 
had  a  large  radius  of  action  that  could  in- 
clude us.  However,  the  menacing  coughs 
finally  ceased  to  annoy,  and  our  immediate 
troubles  were  over.  The  strain  snapped,  the 
air  was  an  exhilarating  tonic,  the  sun  was 
warmly  comforting,  and  everything  seemed 
attractive,  even  the  desolated  jumble  of 
waste  ground  below  us.  I  opened  a  packet 
of  chocolate  and  shared  it  with  V.,  who 
was  trying  hard  to  fly  evenly  with  an  un- 
even rudder.  I  sang  to  him  down  the  speak- 
ing-tube, but  his  nerves  had  stood  enough 
for  the  day,  and  he  wriggled  the  machine 
from  one  side  to  the  other  until  I  became 
silent.  Contrariwise  to  the  last,  our  engine 
recovered  slightly  now  that  its  recovery  was 
not  so  important,  and  it  behaved  well  until 
it  seized  up  for  better  or  worse  when  we  had 
landed. 

From  the  aerodrome  the  pilots  proceeded 
to  tea  and  a  bath,  while  we,  the  unfortunate 


SPYING  OUT  THE  LAND  89 

observers,  copied  our  notes  into  a  detailed 
report,  elaborated  the  sketches  of  the  new 
aerodromes,  and  drove  in  our  unkempt  state 
to  Headquarters,  there  to  discuss  the  recon- 
naissance with  spotlessly  neat  staff  officers. 
At  the  end  of  the  report  one  must  give  the 
height  at  which  the  job  was  done,  and  say 
whether  the  conditions  were  favourable  or 
otherwise  for  observation.  I  thought  of  the 
absence  of  thick  clouds  or  mist  that  might 
have  made  the  work  difficult.  Then  I  thought 
of  the  cylinder  that  missed  and  the  chunk  of 
rudder  that  was  missing,  but  decided  that 
these  little  inconveniences  were  unofficial. 
And  the  legend  I  felt  in  duty  bound  to  write 
was:  "Height  5,000-10,000  ft.  Observation 
easy." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THERE  AND   BACK. 

An  inhuman  philosopher  or  a  strong,  silent 
poseur  might  affect  to  treat  with  indiffer- 
ence his  leave  from  the  Front.  Personally 
I  have  never  met  a  philosopher  inhuman 
enough  or  a  poseur  strongly  silent  enough  to 
repress  evidence  of  wild  satisfaction,  after 
several  months  of  war  at  close  quarters,  on 
being  given  a  railway  warrant  entitling  him 
to  ten  days  of  England,  home,  and  no  duty. 
But  if  you  are  a  normal  soldier  who  dislikes 
fighting  and  detests  discomfort,  the  date  of 
your  near-future  holiday  from  the  dreary 
scene  of  war  will  be  one  of  the  few  problems 
that  really  matter. 

Let  us  imagine  a  slump  in  great  pushes 
at  your  sector  of  the  line,  since  only  during 
the  interval  of  attack  is  the  leave-list  un- 
pigeonholed.  The  weeks  pass  and  your  turn 
creeps  close,  while  you  pray  that  the  lull 
may  last  until  the  day  when,  with  a  heavy 
haversack  and  a  light  heart,  you  set  off  to 

90 


THERE  AND  BACK  91 

become  a  transient  in  Arcadia.  The  de- 
sire for  a  taste  of  freedom  is  sharpened  by 
delay;  but  finally,  after  disappointment  and 
postponement,  the  day  arrives  and  you  de- 
part. Exchanging  a  "So  long"  with  less 
fortunate  members  of  the  mess,  you  realise  a 
vast  difference  in  respective  destinies.  To- 
morrow the  others  will  be  dodging  crumps, 
archies,  or  official  chits  "for  your  informa- 
tion, please";  to-morrow,  with  luck,  you  will 
be  dodging  taxis  in  London. 

During  the  journey  you  begin  to  cast  out 
the  oppressive  feeling  that  a  world  and  a 
half  separates  you  from  the  pleasantly  un- 
disciplined life  you  once  led.  The  tense 
influence  of  those  twin  bores  of  active  ser- 
vice, routine  and  risk,  gradually  loosens  hold, 
and  your  state  of  mind  is  tuned  to  a  pitch 
half-way  between  the  note  of  battle  and  that 
of  a  bank-holiday. 

Yet  a  slight  sense  of  remoteness  lingers  as 
you  enter  London.  At  first  view  the  Char- 
ing Cross  loiterers  seem  more  foreign  than 
the  peasants  of  Picardy,  the  Strand  and 
Piccadilly  less  familiar  than  the  Albert- 
Pozieres  road.     Not  tUJ  a  day  or  two  later, 


92       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

when  the  remnants  of  strained  pre-occupa- 
tion  with  the  big  things  of  war  have  been 
charmed  away  by  old  haunts  and  old  friends, 
do  you  feel  wholly  at  home  amid  your  redis- 
covered fellow-citizens,  the  Man  in  the  Street, 
the  Pacifist,  the  air-raid-funk  Hysteric,  the 
Lady  Flag-Seller,  the  War  Profiteer,  the  dear- 
boy  Fluff  Girl,  the  Prohibitionist,  the  Eng- 
land-for-the-Irish  politician,  the  Conscientious 
Objector,  the  hotel-government  bureaucrat, 
and  other  bulwarks  of  our  united  Empire. 
For  the  rest,  you  will  want  to  cram  into 
ten  short  days  the  average  experiences  of 
ten  long  weeks.  If,  like  most  of  us,  you 
are  young  and  foolish,  you  will  skim  the 
bubbling  froth  of  life  and  seek  crowded  di- 
version in  the  lighter  follies,  the  passing 
shows,  and  1'amour  qui  rit.  And  you  will 
probably  return  to  the  big  things  of  war ' 
tired  but  mightily  refreshed,  and  almost  ready 
to  welcome  a  further  spell  of  routine  and 
risk. 

The  one  unsatisfactory  aspect  of  leave 
from  France,  apart  from  its  rarity,  is  the 
travelling.  This,  in  a  region  congested  by 
the  more  important  traffic  of  war,  is  slow 


THERE  AND  BACK  93 

and  burdensome  to  the  impatient  holiday- 
maker.  Occasionally  the  Flying  Corps  offi- 
cer is  able  to  substitute  an  excursion  by 
air  for  the  land  and  water  journey,  if  on 
one  of  the  dates  that  sandwich  his  leave 
a  bus  of  the  type  already  flown  by  him  must 
be  chauffeured  across  the  Channel.  Such  an 
opportunity  is  welcome,  for  besides  avoiding 
discomfort,  a  joy-ride  of  this  description 
often  saves  time  enough  to  provide  an  extra 
day  in  England. 

On  the  last  occasion  when  I  was  let  loose 
from  the  front  on  ticket-of-leave,  I  added 
twenty-four  hours  to  my  Blighty  period  by 
a  chance  meeting  with  a  friendly  ferry-pilot 
and  a  resultant  trip  as  passenger  in  an  aero- 
plane from  a  home  depot.  Having  covered 
the  same  route  by  train  and  boat  a  few  days 
previously,  a  comparison  between  the  two 
methods  of  travel  left  me  an  enthusiast  for 
aerial  transport  in  the  golden  age  of  after- 
the-war. 

The  leave  train  at  Arriere  was  time-tabled 
for  midnight,  but  as,  under  a  war-time  edict, 
French  cafes  and  places  where  they  lounge 
are  closed  at  10  p.m.,  it  was  at  this  hour  that 


94       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

muddied  officers  and  Tommies  from  every 
part  of  the  Somme  basin  began  to  crowd 
the  station. 

Though  confronted  with  a  long  period  of 
waiting,  in  a  packed  entrance-hall  that  was 
only  half-lit  and  contained  five  seats  to  be 
scrambled  for  by  several  hundred  men,  every 
one,  projected  beyond  the  immediate  discom- 
fort to  the  good  time  coming,  seemed  con- 
tent. The  atmosphere  of  jolly  expectancy 
was  comparable  to  that  of  Waterloo  Station 
on  the  morning  of  Derby  Day.  Scores  of 
little  groups  gathered  to  talk  the  latest  shop- 
talk  from  the  trenches.  A  few  of  us  who 
were  acquainted  with  the  corpulent  and  affa- 
ble R.T.O.— it  is  part  of  an  R.T.O.'s  stock- 
in-trade  to  be  corpulent  and  affable — sought 
out  his  private  den,  and  exchanged  yarns 
while  commandeering  his  whisky.  Stuff  Re- 
doubt had  been  stormed  a  few  days  pre- 
viously, and  a  Canadian  captain,  who  had 
been  among  the  first  to  enter  the  Hun  strong- 
hold, told  of  the  assault.  A  sapper  discussed 
some  recent  achievements  of  mining  parties. 
A  tired  gunner  subaltern  spoke  viciously  of 
a  stupendous  bombardment  that  allowed  lit- 


THERE  AND  BACK  95 

tie  rest,  less  sleep,  and  no  change  of  clothes. 
Time  was  overcome  easily  in  thus  looking  at 
war  along  the  varying  angles  of  the  infantry- 
man, the  gunner,  the  engineer,  the  machine- 
gun  performer,  and  the  flying  officer,  all 
fresh  from  their  work. 

The  train,  true  to  the  custom  of  leave 
trains,  was  very  late.  When  it  did  arrive, 
the  good-natured  jostling  for  seats  again  re- 
minded one  of  the  London  to  Epsom  traffic 
of  Derby  Day.  Somehow  the  crowd  was 
squeezed  into  carriage  accommodation  barely 
sufficient  for  two-thirds  of  its  number,  and 
we  left  Arriere.  Two  French  and  ten  British 
officers  obtained  a  minimum  of  space  in  my 
compartment.  We  sorted  out  our  legs,  arms, 
and  luggage,  and  tried  to  rest. 

In  my  case  sleep  was  ousted  by  thoughts 
of  what  was  ahead.  Ten  days'  freedom  in 
England!  The  stout  major  on  my  left 
snored.  The  head  of  the  hard-breathing 
Frenchman  to  the  right  slipped  on  to  my 
shoulder.  An  unkempt  subaltern  opposite 
wriggled  and  turned  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
find  ease.  I  was  damnably  cramped,  but 
above  all  impatient  for  the  morrow.    A  pass- 


96       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

ing  train  shrieked.  Cold  whiffs  from  the 
half-open  window  cut  the  close  atmosphere. 
Slowly,  and  with  frequent  halts  for  the  pas- 
sage of  war  freights  more  urgent  than  our- 
selves, our  train  chugged  northward.  One 
hour,  two  hours,  three  hours  of  stuffy  dim- 
ness and  acute  discomfort.  Finally  I  sank 
into  a  troubled  doze.  When  we  were  called 
outside  Boulogne,  I  found  my  hand  poised 
on  the  stout  major's  bald  head,  as  if  in 
benediction. 

The  soldier  on  leave,  eager  to  be  done 
with  the  preliminary  journey,  chafes  at  in- 
evitable delay  in  Boulogne.  Yet  this  largest 
of  channel  ports,  in  its  present  state,  can 
show  the  casual  passer-by  much  that  is  in- 
teresting. It  has  become  almost  a  new  town 
during  the  past  three  years.  Formerly  a 
headquarters  of  pleasure,  a  fishing  centre 
and  a  principal  port  of  call  for  Anglo-Con- 
tinental travel,  it  has  been  transformed  into 
an  important  military  base.  It  is  now  wholly 
of  the  war;  the  armies  absorb  everything 
that  it  transfers  from  sea  to  railway,  from 
human  fuel  for  war's  blast-furnace  to  the 
fish  caught  outside  the  harbour.     The  mul- 


THERE  AND  BACK  97 

titude  of  visitors  from  across  the  Channel  is 
larger  than  ever;  but  instead  of  Paris,  the 
Mediterranean,  and  the  East,  they  are  bound 
for  less  attractive  destinations — the  muddy 
battle-area  and  Kingdom  Come. 

The  spirit  of  the  place  is  altogether 
changed.  From  time  immemorial  Boulogne 
has  included  an  English  alloy  in  its  French 
composition,  but  prior  to  the  war  it  shared 
with  other  coastal  resorts  of  France  an  out- 
look of  smiling  carelessness.  Superficially  it 
now  seems  more  British  than  French,  and, 
partly  by  reason  of  this,  it  impresses  one 
as  being  severely  business-like.  The  great 
number  of  khaki  travellers  is  rivalled  by  a 
huge  colony  of  khaki  Base  workers.  Except 
ror  a  few  matelots,  French  fishermen,  and 
the  wharfside  cafes,  there  is  nothing  to  dis- 
tinguish the  quays  from  those  of  a  British 
port. 

The  blue-bloused  porters  who  formerly  met 
one  with  volubility  and  the  expectation  of  a 
fabulous  tip  have  given  place  to  khakied  or- 
derlies, the  polite  customs  officials  to  old- 
soldier  myrmidons  of  the  worried  embarka- 
tion   officer.      Store    dumps    with    English 


98       CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

markings  are  packed  symmetrically  on  the 
cobbled  stones.  The  transport  lorries  are  all 
British,  some  of  them  still  branded  with 
the  names  of  well-known  London  firms. 
Newly-built  supply  depots,  canteens,  and 
military  institutes  fringe  the  town  proper  or 
rise  behind  the  sand-ridges.  One-time  hotels 
and  casinos  along  the  sea-front  between 
Boulogne  and  Wimereux  have  become  hos- 
pitals, to  which,  by  day  and  by  night,  the 
smooth-running  motor  ambulances  bring 
broken  soldiers.  Other  of  the  larger  hotels, 
like  the  Folkestone  and  the  Meurice,  are 
now  patronised  almost  exclusively  by  British 
officers. 

The  military  note  dominates  everything. 
A  walk  through  the  main  streets  leaves  an 
impression  of  mixed  uniforms — bedraggled 
uniforms  from  trench  and  dug-out,  neat  rain- 
bow-tabbed uniforms  worn  by  officers  at- 
tached to  the  Base,  graceful  nursing  uniforms, 
haphazard  convalescent  uniforms,  discoloured 
blue  uniforms  of  French  permissionaires. 
Everybody  is  bilingual,  speaking,  if  not  both 
English  and  French,  either  one  or  other  of 
these   languages  and   the  formless  Angliche 


THERE  AND  BACK  99 

patois  invented  by  Tommy  and  his  hosts  of 
the  occupied  zone.  And  everybody,  soldier 
and  civilian,  treats  as  a  matter  of  course  the 
strange  metamorphosis  of  what  was  formerly 
a  haven  for  the  gentle  tourist. 

The  boat,  due  to  steam  off  at  eleven,  left 
at  noon, — a  creditable  performance  as  leave- 
boats  go.  On  this  occasion  there  was  good 
reason  for  the  delay,  as  we  ceded  the  right 
of  way  to  a  hospital  ship  and  waited  while 
a  procession  of  ambulance  cars  drove  along 
the  quay  and  unloaded  their  stretcher  cases. 
The  Red  Cross  vessel  churned  slowly  out  of 
the  harbour,  and  we  followed  at  a  respectful 
distance. 

Passengers  on  a  Channel  leave-boat  are 
quieter  than  might  be  expected.  With  the 
country  of  war  behind  them  they  have  at- 
tained the  third  degree  of  content,  and  so 
novel  is  this  state  after  months  of  living  on 
edge  that  the  short  crossing  does  not  allow 
sufficient  time  for  them  to  be  moved  to  ex- 
uberance. One  promenades  the  crowded 
deck  happily,  taking  care  not  to  tread  on 
the  staff  spurs,  and  talks  of  fighting  as  if  it 
were  a  thing  of  the  half-forgotten  past. 


100    CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

But  there  is  no  demonstration.  In  a  well- 
known  illustrated  weekly  a  recent  frontis- 
piece, supposedly  drawn  "from  material  sup- 
plied," depicts  a  band  of  beaming  Tommies, 
with  weird  water-bottles,  haversacks,  mess- 
tins,  and  whatnots  dangling  from  their  sheep- 
skin coats,  throwing  caps  and  cheers  high  into 
the  air  as  they  greet  the  cliffs  of  England.  As 
the  subject  of  an  Academy  picture,  or  an 
illustration  for  "The  Hero's  Homecoming,  or 
How  a  Bigamist  Made  Good,"  the  sketch 
would  be  excellent.  But,  except  for  the 
beaming  faces,  it  is  fanciful.  A  shadowy 
view  of  the  English  coast-line  draws  a  crowd 
to  the  starboard  side  of  the  boat,  whence  one 
gazes  long  and  joyfully  at  the  dainty  cliffs. 
Yet  there  is  no  outward  sign  of  excitement; 
the  deep  satisfaction  felt  by  all  is  of  too 
intimate  a  nature  to  call  for  cheering  and 
cap-throwing.  The  starboard  deck  remains 
crowded  as  the  shore  looms  larger,  and  until, 
on  entry  into  Dovstone  harbour,  one  pre- 
pares for  disembarkation. 

The  Front  seemed  very  remote  from  the 
train  that  carried  us  from  Dovstone  to  Lon- 
don.   How  could  one  think  of  the  wilderness 


THERE  AND  BACK  101 

with  the  bright  hop-fields  of  Kent  chasing 
past  the  windows?  Then  came  the  mass- 
meeting  of  brick  houses  that  skirt  London, 
and  finally  the  tunnel  which  is  the  approach 
to  the  terminus.  As  the  wheels  rumbled 
through  the  darkness  of  it  they  suggested 
some  lines  of  stray  verse  beginning — 

"Twenty  to  eleven  by  all  the  clocks  of  Piccadilly; 
Buy  your  love  a  lily-bloom,  buy  your  love  a  rose." 

It  had  been  raining,  and  the  faint  yet  un- 
mistakable tang  sniffed  from  wet  London 
streets  made  one  feel  at  home  more  than 
anything  else.  We  dispersed,  each  to  make 
his  interval  of  heaven  according  to  taste, 
means,  and  circumstances.  That  same  eve- 
ning I  was  fortunate  in  being  helped  to  for- 
get the  realities  of  war  by  two  experiences. 
A  much-mustached  A.P.M.  threatened  me 
with  divers  penalties  for  the  wearing  of  a 
soft  hat;  and  I  was  present  at  a  merry  gath- 
ering of  theatrical  luminaries,  enormously  in- 
terested in  themselves,  but  enormously  bored 
by  the  war,  which  usurped  so  much  news- 
paper space  that  belonged  by  rights  to  the 
lighter  drama. 

Curtain  and  interval  of  ten  days,  at  the 


102     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

end  of  which  I  was  offered  a  place  as  pas- 
senger in  a  machine  destined  for  my  own 
squadron.  The  bus  was  to  be  taken  to  an 
aircraft  depot  in  France  from  Rafborough 
Aerodrome.  Rafborough  is  a  small  town  gal- 
vanised into  importance  by  its  association 
with  flying.  Years  ago,  in  the  far-away  days 
when  aviation  itself  was  matter  for  wonder, 
the  pioneers  who  concerned  themselves  with 
the  possibilities  of  war  flying  made  their 
headquarters  at  Rafborough.  An  experimen- 
tal factory,  rich  in  theory,  was  established, 
and  near  it  was  laid  out  an  aerodrome  for  the 
more  practical  work.  Thousands  of  machines 
have  since  been  tested  on  the  rough-grassed 
aerodrome,  while  the  neighbouring  Royal  Air- 
craft Factory  has  continued  to  produce  de- 
signs, ideas,  aeroplanes,  engines,  and  aircraft 
accessories.  Formerly  most  types  of  new  ma- 
chines were  put  through  their  official  paces  at 
Rafborough,  and  most  types,  including  some 
captures  from  the  Huns,  were  to  be  seen  in 
its  sheds.  Probably  Rafborough  has  har- 
boured a  larger  variety  of  aircraft  and  air- 
craft experts  than  any  other  place  in  the 
world. 


THERE  AND  BACK  103 

My  friend  the  ferry-pilot  having  announced 
that  the  carriage  waited,  I  strapped  our  bag- 
gage, some  new  gramophone  records,  and  my- 
self into  the  observer's  office.  I  also  took — 
tell  this  not  in  Gath,  for  the  transport  of 
dogs  by  aeroplane  has  been  forbidden — a 
terrier  pup  sent  to  a  fellow-officer  by  his 
family.  At  first  the  puppy  was  on  a  cord 
attached  to  some  bracing- wires;  but  as  he 
showed  fright  when  the  machine  took  off 
from  the  ground,  I  kept  him  on  my  lap  for 
a  time.  Here  he  remained  subdued  and  ap- 
parently uninterested.  Later,  becoming  in- 
ured to  the  engine's  drone  and  the  slight 
vibration,  he  roused  himself  and  wanted  to 
explore  the  narrowing  passage  toward  the 
tail-end  of  the  fuselage.  The  little  chap  was, 
however,  distinctly  pleased  to  be  on  land 
again  at  Saint  Gregoire,  where  he  kept  well 
away  from  the  machine,  as  if  uncertain 
whether  the  strange  giant  of  an  animal  were 
friendly  or  a  dog-eater. 

It  was  a  morning  lovely  enough  to  be  that 
of  the  world's  birthday.  Not  a  cloud  flecked 
the  sky,  the  flawless  blue  of  which  was  made 
tenuous  by  sunlight.     The   sun  brightened 


104     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  kaleidoscopic  earthscape  below  us,  so  that 
rivers  and  canals  looked  like  quicksilver 
threads,  and  even  the  railway  lines  glistened. 
The  summer  countryside,  as  viewed  from  an 
aeroplane,  is  to  my  mind  the  finest  scene  in 
the  world — an  unexampled  scene,  of  which 
poets  will  sing  in  the  coming  days  of  univer- 
sal flight.  The  varying  browns  and  greens  of 
the  field-pattern  merge  into  one  another  deli- 
cately; the  woods,  splashes  of  bottle-green, 
relieve  the  patchwork  of  hedge  from  too 
ordered  a  scheme;  rivers  and  roads  criss- 
cross in  riotous  manner  over  the  vast  tap- 
estry; pleasant  villages  and  farm  buildings 
snuggle  in  the  valleys  or  straggle  on  the 
slopes.  The  wide  and  changing  perspective 
is  full  of  a  harmony  unspoiled  by  the  jarring 
notes  evident  on  solid  ground.  Ugliness  and 
dirt  are  camouflaged  by  the  clean  top  of 
everything.  Grimy  towns  and  jerry-built 
suburbs  seem  almost  attractive  when  seen 
in  mass  from  a  height.  Slums,  the  dead 
uniformity  of  long  rows  of  houses,  sordid 
back-gardens,  bourgeois  public  statues — all 
these  eyesores  are  mercifully  hidden  by  the 
roofed  surface.     The  very  factory  chimneys 


THERE  AND  BACK  105 

have  a  certain  air  of  impressiveness,  in  com- 
mon with  church  towers  and  the  higher 
buildings.  Once,  on  flying  over  the  pottery- 
town  of  Coalport — the  most  uninviting  place 
I  have  ever  visited — I  found  that  the  altered 
perspective  made  it  look  delightful. 

A  westward  course,  with  the  fringe  of 
London  away  on  our  left,  brought  us  to  the 
coast-line  all  too  soon.  Passing  Do vs tone, 
the  bus  continued  across  the  Channel.  A 
tew  ships,  tiny  and  slow-moving  when  ob- 
served from  a  machine  at  8000  feet  and  trav- 
elling 100  miles  an  hour,  spotted  the  sea.  A 
cluster  of  what  were  probably  destroyers 
threw  out  trails  of  dark  smoke.  From  above 
mid-Channel  we  could  see  plainly  the  two 
coasts — that  of  England  knotted  into  small 
creeks  and  capes,  that  of  France  bent  into 
large  curves,  except  for  the  sharp  corner  at 
Grisnez.  Behind  was  Blighty,  with  its  great- 
ness and  its — sawdust.  Ahead  was  the  prov- 
ince of  battle,  with  its  good-fellowship  and 
its — mud.  I  lifted  the  puppy  to  show  him 
his  new  country,  but  he  merely  exhibited 
boredom  and  a  dislike  of  the  sudden  rush  of 
air. 


106'     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

From  Cape  Grisnez  we  steered  north-east 
towards  Calais,  so  as  to  have  a  clearly  de- 
fined course  to  the  aircraft  depot  of  Saint 
Gregoire.  After  a  cross-Channel  flight  one 
notes  a  marked  difference  between  the  French 
and  English  earthscapes.  The  French  towns 
and  villages  seem  to  sprawl  less  than  those 
of  England,  and  the  countryside  in  general 
is  more  compact  and  regular.  The  roads  are 
straight  and  tree-bordered,  so  that  they  form 
almost  as  good  a  guide  to  an  airman  as  the 
railways.  In  England  the  roads  twist  and 
twirl  through  each  other  like  the  threads  of 
a  spider's  web,  and  failing  rail  or  river  or 
prominent  landmarks,  one  usually  steers  by 
compass  rather  than  trust  to  roads. 

At  Calais  we  turned  to  the  right  and  fol- 
lowed a  network  of  canals  south-westward  to 
Saint  Gregoire,  where  was  an  aircraft  depot 
similar  to  the  one  at  Rafborough.  New  ma- 
chines call  at  Saint  Gregoire  before  passing  to 
the  service  of  aerodromes,  and  in  its  work- 
shops machines  damaged  but  repairable  are 
made  fit  for  further  service.  It  is  also  a 
higher  training  centre  for  airmen.  Before 
they  join  a  squadron  pilots  fresh  from  their 


THERE  AND  BACK  107 

instruction  in  England  gain  experience  on 
service  machines  belonging  to  the  "pool"  at 
Saint  Gregoire. 

Having  been  told  by  telephone  from  my 
squadron  that  one  of  our  pilots  had  been 
detailed  to  take  the  recently  arrived  bus  to 
the  Somme,  I  awaited  his  arrival  and  passed 
the  time  to  good  purpose  in  watching  the 
aerobatics  and  sham  fights  of  the  pool  pupils. 
Every  now  and  then  another  plane  from 
England  would  arrive  high  over  the  aero- 
drome, spiral  down  and  land  into  the  wind. 
The  ferry-pilot  who  had  brought  me  left  for 
Rafborough  almost  immediately  on  a  much- 
flown  "quirk."  The  machine  he  had  de- 
livered at  Saint  Gregoire  was  handed  over  to 
a  pilot  from  Umpty  Squadron  when  the  lat- 
ter reported,  and  we  took  to  the  air  soon  after 
lunch.  The  puppy  travelled  by  road  over 
the  last  lap  of  his  long  journey,  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  lorry  driver. 

The  bus  headed  east  while  climbing,  for 
we  had  decided  to  follow  the  British  lines 
as  far  as  the  Somme,  a  course  which  would 
be  prolific  in  interesting  sights,  and  which 
would  make  us  eligible  for  that  rare  gift  of 


108     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  gods,  an  air-fight  over  friendly  territory. 

The  coloured  panorama  below  gave  place 
gradually  to  a  wilderness — ugly  brown  and 
pock-marked.  The  roads  became  bare  and 
dented,  the  fields  were  mottled  by  shell- 
holes,  the  woods  looked  like  scraggy  patches 
of  burnt  furze.  It  was  a  district  of  great 
deeds  and  glorious  deaths — the  desolation 
surrounding  the  Fronts  of  yesterday  and 
to-day. 

North  of  Ypres  we  turned  to  the  right 
and  hovered  awhile  over  this  city  of  ghosts. 
Seen  from  above,  the  shell  of  the  ancient 
city  suggests  a  grim  reflection  on  the  muta- 
bility of  beauty.  I  sought  a  comparison, 
and  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  skeleton 
of  a  once  charming  woman.  The  ruins  stood 
out  in  a  magnificent  disorder  that  was  starkly 
impressive.  Walls  without  roof,  buildings 
with  two  sides,  churches  without  tower,  were 
everywhere  prominent,  as  though  proud  to 
survive  the  orgy  of  destruction.  The  shat- 
tered Cathedral  retained  much  of  its  former 
grandeur.  Only  the  old  Cloth  Hall,  half^ 
razed  and  without  arch  or  belfry,  seemed  to 
cry   for   vengeance   on   the   vandalism   that 


THERE  AND  BACK  109 

wrecked  it.  The  gaping  skeleton  was  grey- 
white,  as  if  sprinkled  by  the  powder  of  decay. 
And  one  fancies  that  at  night-time  the  ghosts 
of  1915  mingle  with  the  ghosts  of  Philip  of 
Spain's  era  of  conquest  and  the  ghosts  of 
great  days  in  other  centuries,  as  they  search 
the  ruins  for  relics  of  the  city  they  knew. 

Left  of  us  was  the  salient,  studded  with 
broken  villages  that  became  household  names 
during  the  two  epic  Battles  of  Ypres.  The 
brown  soil  was  dirty,  shell-ploughed,  and  al- 
together unlovely.  Those  strange  markings, 
which  from  our  height  looked  ike  the  tor- 
tuous pathways  of  a  serpent,  were  the 
trenches,  old  and  new,  front-line,  support, 
and  communication.  Small  saps  projected 
from  the  long  lines  at  every  angle.  So  com- 
plicated was  the  jumble  that  the  sinister 
region  of  No  Man's  Land,  with  its  shell- 
holes,  dead  bodies,  and  barbed  wire,  was 
scarcely  distinguishable. 

A  brown  strip  enclosed  the  trenches  and 
wound  northward  and  southward.  Its  sur- 
face had  been  torn  and  battered  by  innu- 
merable shells.  On  its  fringe,  among  the 
copses   and   crests,    were   the   guns,    though 


110     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

these  were  evidenced  only  by  an  occasional 
flash.  Behind,  in  front,  and  around  them 
were  those  links  in  the  chain  of  war,  the  oft- 
cut  telephone  wires.  The  desolation  seemed 
utterly  bare,  though  one  knew  that  over  and 
under  it,  hidden  from  eyes  in  the  air,  swarmed 
the  slaves  of  the  gun,  the  rifle,  and  the  bomb. 

Following  the  belt  of  wilderness  south- 
ward, we  were  obliged  to  veer  to  the  right 
at  St.  Eloi,  so  as  to  round  a  sharp  bend. 
Below  the  bend,  and  on  the  wrong  side  of 
it,  was  the  Messines  Ridge,  the  recent  cap- 
ture of  which  has  straightened  the  line  as 
far  as  Hooge,  and  flattened  the  Ypres  salient 
out  of  existence  as  a  salient.  Next  came  the 
torn  and  desolate  outline  of  Plug  Street 
Wood,  and  with  it  reminiscences  of  a  splen- 
did struggle  against  odds  when  shell-shortage 
hampered  our  1915  armies.  Armentieres  ap- 
peared still  worthy  to  be  called  a  town.  It 
was  battered,  but  much  less  so  than  Ypres, 
possibly  because  it  was  a  hotbed  of  German 
espionage  until  last  year.  The  triangular 
denseness  of  Lille  loomed  up  from  the  flat 
.soil  on  our  left. 

As  we  passed  down   the  line  the  brown 


THERE  AND  BACK  111 

band  narrowed  until  it  seemed  a  strip  of 
discoloured  water-marked  ribbon  sewn  over 
the  mosaic  of  open  country.  The  trench- 
lines  were  monotonous  in  their  sameness. 
The  shell-spotted  area  bulged  at  places,  as 
for  example  Festubert,  Neuve  Chapelle  (of 
bitter  memory),  Givenchy,  Hulluch,  and 
Loos.  Lens,  well  behind  the  German  trenches 
in  those  days,  showed  few  marks  of  bom- 
bardment. The  ribbon  of  ugliness  widened 
again  between  Souchez  and  the  yet  uncap- 
tured  Vimy  Ridge,  but  afterwards  contracted 
as  far  as  Arras,  that  ragged  sentinel  of  the 
war  frontier. 

At  Arras  we  entered  our  own  particular 
province,  which,  after  months  of  flying  over 
it,  I  knew  better  than  my  native  county. 
Gun-flashes  became  numerous,  kite  balloons 
hung  motionless,  and  we  met  restless  aero- 
plane formations  engaged  on  defensive  pa- 
trols. With  these  latter  on  guard  our  chance 
of  a  scrap  with  roving  enemy  craft  would 
have  been  remote;  though  for  that  matter 
neither  we  nor  they  saw  a  single  black- 
crossed  machine  throughout  the  afternoon. 

From  Gommecourt  to  the  Somme  was  an 


112     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

area  of  concentrated  destruction.  The  wil- 
derness swelled  outwards,  becoming  twelve 
miles  wide  at  parts.  Tens  of  thousands  of 
shells  had  pocked  the  dirty  soil,  scores  of 
mine  explosions  had  cratered  it.  Only  the 
pen  of  a  Zola  could  describe  adequately  the 
zone's  intense  desolation,  as  seen  from  the 
air.  Those  ruins,  suggestive  of  abandoned 
scrap-heaps,  were  formerly  villages.  They 
had  been  made  familiar  to  the  world  through 
matter-of-fact  reports  of  attack  and  counter- 
attack, capture  and  recapture.  Each  had  a 
tale  to  tell  of  systematic  bombardment,  of 
crumbling  walls,  of  wild  hand-to-hand  fight- 
ing, of  sudden  evacuation  and  occupation. 
Now  they  were  nothing  but  useless  piles  of 
brick  and  glorious  names — Thiepval,  Pozieres, 
La  Boiselle,  Guillemont,  Flers,  Hardecourt, 
Guinchy,  Combles,  Bouchavesnes,  and  a 
dozen  others. 

Of  all  the  crumbled  roads  the  most  strik- 
ing was  the  long,  straight  one  joining  Albert 
and  Bapaume.  It  looked  fairly  regular  for 
the  most  part,  except  where  the  trenches  cut 
it.  Beyond  the  scrap-heap  that  once  was 
Pozieres  two  enormous  quarries  dipped  into 


THERE  AND  BACK  113 

the  earth  on  either  side  of  the  road.  Until 
the  Messines  explosion  they  were  the  largest 
mine  craters  on  the  western  front.  Farther 
along  the  road  was  the  scene  of  the  first 
tank  raids,  where  on  September  16  the  metal 
monsters  waddled  across  to  the  gaping  enemy 
and  ate  up  his  pet  machine-gun  emplace- 
ments before  he  had  time  to  recover  from 
his  surprise.  At  the  road's  end  was  the  for- 
lorn stronghold  of  Bapaume.  One  by  one 
the  lines  of  defence  before  it  had  been  stormed, 
and  it  was  obvious  that  the  town  must  fall, 
though  its  capture  was  delayed  until  months 
later  by  a  fierce  defence  at  the  Butte  de 
Warlencourt  and  elsewhere.  The  advance  to- 
wards Bapaume  was  of  special  interest  to 
R.F.C.  squadrons  on  the  Somme,  for  the 
town  had  been  a  troublesome  centre  of  anti- 
aircraft devilries.  Our  field-guns  now  being 
too  close  for  Herr  Archie,  he  had  moved  to 
more  comfortable  headquarters. 

Some  eight  miles  east  of  Bapaume  the 
Bois  d'Havrincourt  stood  out  noticeably. 
Around  old  Mossy-Face,  as  the  wood  was 
known  in  R.F.C.  messes,  were  clustered  many 
Boche  aerodromes.      Innumerable  duels  had 


114      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

been  fought  in  the  air-country  between 
Mossy-Face  and  the  lines.  Every  fine  day 
the  dwellers  in  the  trenches  before  Bapaume 
saw  machines  swerving  round  each  other  in 
determined  effort  to  destroy.  This  region 
was  the  hunting-ground  of  many  dead  nota- 
bilities of  the  air,  including  the  Fokker  stars 
Boelcke  and  Immelmann,  besides  British 
pilots  as  brilliant  but  less  advertised. 

Below  the  Pozieres-Bapaume  road  were  five 
small  woods,  grouped  like  the  Great  Bear 
constellation  of  stars.  Their  roots  were  feed- 
ing on  hundreds  of  dead  bodies,  after  each 
of  the  five — Trones,  Mametz,  Foureaux,  Del- 
ville,  and  Bouleaux — had  seen  wild  encoun- 
ters with  bomb  and  bayonet  beneath  its  dead 
trees.  Almost  in  the  same  position  relative 
to  the  cluster  of  woods  as  is  the  North  Star 
to  the  Great  Bear,  was  a  scrap-heap  larger 
than  most,  amid  a  few  walls  yet  upright. 
This  was  all  that  remained  of  the  fortress  of 
Combles.  For  two  years  the  enemy  strength- 
ened it  by  every  means  known  to  military 
science,  after  which  the  British  and  French 
rushed  in  from  opposite  sides  and  met  in 
the  main  street. 


THERE  AND  BACK  115 

A  few  minutes  down  the  line  brought  our 
machine  to  the  sparkling  Somme,  the  white 
town  of  Peronne,  and  the  then  junction  of 
the  British  and  French  lines.  We  turned 
north-west  and  made  for  home.  Passing  over 
some  lazy  sausage  balloons,  we  reached  Albert. 
Freed  at  last  from  the  intermittent  shelling 
from  which  it  suffered  for  so  long,  the  town  was 
picking  up  the  threads  of  activity.  The 
sidings  were  full  of  trucks,  and  a  procession 
of  some  twenty  lorries  moved  slowly  up  the 
road  to  Bouzincourt.  As  reminder  of  anxious 
days,  we  noted  a  few  skeleton  roofs,  and  the 
giant  Virgin  Mary  in  tarnished  gilt,  who, 
after  withstanding  bombardments  sufficient 
to  have  wrecked  a  cathedral,  leaned  over  at 
right  angles  to  her  pedestal,  suspended  in  ap- 
parently miraculous  fashion  by  the  three  re- 
maining girders. 

We  flew  once  more  over  a  countryside  of 
multi-coloured  crops  and  fantastic  woods,  and 
so  to  the  aerodrome. 

Snatches  of  familiar  flying-talk,  unheard 
during  the  past  ten  days  of  leave,  floated 
from  the   tea-table  as  I  entered   the  mess: 


116      CAVALRY  OP  THE  CLOUDS 

"Folded  up  as  he  pulled  out  of  the  dive- 
weak  factor  of  safety — side-slipped  away  from 
Archie — vertical  gust— choked  on  the  fine 
adjustment — made  rings  round  the  Hun — 
went  down  in  flames  near  Douai." 

The  machine  that  "went  down  in  flames 
near  Douai"  was  piloted  by  the  man  whose 
puppy  I  had  brought  from  England. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    CLOUD    RECONNAISSANCE. 

Clouds,  say  the  text-books  of  meteorology, 
are  collections  of  partly  condensed  water 
vapour  or  of  fine  ice  crystals.  Clouds,  men- 
tioned in  terms  of  the  newspaper  and  the 
club,  are  dingy  masses  of  nebulousness  under 
which  the  dubious  politician,  company  pro- 
moter, or  other  merchant  of  hot  air  is  hidden 
from  open  attack  and  exposure.  Clouds,  to 
the  flying  officer  on  active  service,  are  either 
useful  friends  or  unstrafeable  enemies.  The 
hostile  clouds  are  very  high  and  of  the  ice- 
crystal  variety.  They  form  a  light  back- 
ground, against  which  aeroplanes  are  boldly 
silhouetted,  to  the  great  advantage  of  anti- 
aircraft gunners.  The  friendly  or  water- vapour 
clouds  are  to  be  found  several  thousands  of 
feet  lower.  If  a  pilot  be  above  them  they 
help  him  to  dodge  writs  for  trespass,  which 
Archibald  the  bailiff  seeks  to  hand  him. 
When  numerous  enough  to  make  attempts 
at    observation    ineffective,    they    per- 

117 


118  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

form  an  even  greater  service  for  him — that 
of  arranging  for  a  day's  holiday.  And  at 
times  the  R.F.C.  pilot,  like  the  man  with  a 
murky  past,  is  constrained  to  have  clouds 
for  a  covering  against  attack;  as  you  shall 
see  if  you  will  accompany  me  on  the  trip 
about  to  be  described. 

The  period  is  the  latter  half  of  September, 
1916,  a  time  of  great  doings  on  the  Somme 
front.  After  a  few  weeks  of  comparative 
inaction — if  methodical  consolidation  and  in- 
tense artillery  preparation  can  be  called  in- 
action— the  British  are  once  more  denting 
the  Boche  line.  Flers,  Martinpuich,  Cour- 
celette,  and  Eaucourt  l'Abbaye  have  fallen 
within  the  past  week,  and  the  tanks  have 
made  their  first  ungainly  bow  before 
the  curtain  of  war,  with  the  superlatives  of 
the  war  correspondent  in  close  attendance. 
Leave  from  France  has  been  cancelled  in- 
definitely. 

Our  orders  are  to  carry  through  all  the 
reconnaissance  work  allotted  to  us,  even 
though  weather  conditions  place  such  duties 
near  the  border-line  of  possible  accomplish- 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    119 

ment.  ,  That  is  why  we  now  propose  to  leave 
the  aerodrome,  despite  a  great  lake  of  cloud 
that  only  allows  the  sky  to  be  seen  through 
rare  gaps,  and  a  sixty-mile  wind  that  will 
fight  us  on  the  outward  journey.  Under  these 
circumstances  we  shall  probably  find  no 
friendly  craft  east  of  the  trenches,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  whatever  Hun  machines  are  in 
the  air  will  be  free  to  deal  with  our  party. 
However,  since  six  machines  are  detailed  for 
the  job,  I  console  myself  with  the  old  tag 
about  safety  in  numbers. 

We  rise  to  a  height  of  3000  feet,  and  ren- 
dezvous there.  From  the  flight-commander's 
bus  I  look  back  to  see  how  the  formation  is 
shaping,  and  discover  that  we  number  but 
five,  one  machine  having  failed  to  start  by 
reason  of  a  dud  engine.  We  circle  the  aero- 
drome, waiting  for  a  sixth  bus,  but  nobody 
is  sent  to  join  us.  The  "Carry  on"  signal 
shows  up  from  the  ground,  and  we  head 
eastward. 

After  climbing  another  fifteen  hundred  feet, 
we  enter  the  clouds.  It  is  now  impossible  to 
see  more  than  a  yard  or  two  through  the 
intangible  wisps  of  grey-white  vapour  that 


120     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

seem  to  float  around  us,  so  that  our  forma- 
tion loses  its  symmetry,  and  we  become 
scattered.  Arrived  in  the  clear  atmosphere 
above  the  clouds  my  pilot  throttles  down 
until  the  rear  machines  have  appeared  and 
re-formed.  We  then  continue  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  trenches,  with  deep  blue  infinity 
above  and  the  unwieldy  cloud-banks  below. 
Familiar  landmarks  show  up  from  time  to 
time  through  holes  in  the  white  screen. 

Against  the  violent  wind,  far  stronger  than 
we  found  it  near  the  ground,  we  make  la- 
boured progress.  Evidently,  two  of  the  for- 
mation are  in  difficulties,  for  they  drop 
farther  and  farther  behind.  Soon  one  gives 
in  and  turns  back,  the  pilot  being  unable 
to  maintain  pressure  for  his  petrol  supply. 
I  shout  the  news  through  the  speaking-tube, 
and  hear,  in  reply  from  the  flight-commander, 
a  muffled  comment,  which  might  be  "Well!" 
but  it  is  more  likely  to  be  something  else. 
Three  minutes  later  the  second  bus  in  trouble 
turns  tail.  Its  engine  has  been  missing  on 
one  cylinder  since  the  start,  and  is  not  in  a 
fit  state  for  a  trip  over  enemy  country.  Again 
I  call  to  the  leader,  and  again  hear  a  word 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    121 

ending  in  "ell."  The  two  remaining  ma- 
chines close  up,  and  we  continue.  Very  sud- 
denly one  of  them  drops  out,  with  a  rocker- 
arm  gone.  Its  nose  goes  down,  and  it  glides 
into  the  clouds.  Yet  again  I  call  the  flight- 
commander's  attention  to  our  dwindling  num- 
bers, and  this  time  I  cannot  mistake  the 
single-syllabled  reply.  It  is  a  full-throated 
"Hell!" 

For  my  part  I  compare  the  party  to  the 
ten  little  nigger  boys,  and  wonder  when  the 
only  survivor,  apart  from  our  own  machine, 
will  leave.  I  look  towards  it  anxiously.  The 
wings  on  one  side  are  much  lighter  than 
those  on  the  other,  and  I  therefore  recognise 
it  as  the  Tripehound's  bus.  There  is  ground 
for  misgiving,  for  on  several  occasions  during 
the  past  ten  minutes  it  has  seemed  to  fly  in 
an  erratic  manner.  The  cause  of  this,  as  we 
find  out  on  our  return,  is  that  for  five  min- 
utes the  Tripehound  has  been  leaning  over 
the  side,  with  the  joystick  held  between  his 
knees  while  attempting  to  fasten  a  small  door 
in  the  cowling  round  the  engine,  left  open 
by  a  careless  mechanic.  It  is  important  to 
shut  the  owning  as  otherwise  the  wind  may 


122  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

rush  inside  and  tear  off  the  cowling.  Just 
as  a  short  band  of  the  trench  line  south  of 
Arras  can  be  seen  through  a  gap,  the  Tripe- 
hound,  having  found  that  he  cannot  possibly 
reach  far  enough  to  close  the  protruding  door, 
signals  that  he  must  go  home. 

I  do  not  feel  altogether  sorry  to  see  our 
last  companion  leave,  as  we  have  often  been 
told  not  to  cross  the  lines  on  a  reconnais- 
sance flight  with  less  than  three  machines; 
and  with  the  wind  and  the  low  clouds,  which 
now  form  an  opaque  window,  perforated  here 
and  there  by  small  holes,  a  long  observa- 
tion journey  over  Bocheland  by  a  single 
aeroplane  does  not  seem  worth  while.  But 
the  flight-commander,  remembering  the  re- 
cent order  about  completing  a  reconnaissance 
at  all  costs,  thinks  differently  and  decides  to 
go  on.  To  get  our  bearings  he  holds  down 
the  nose  of  the  machine  until  we  have  de- 
scended beneath  the  clouds,  and  into  full 
view  of  the  open  country. 

We  find  ourselves  a  mile  or  two  beyond 
Arras.  As  soon  as  the  bus  appears  it  is 
bracketed  in  front,  behind,  and  on  both  sides 
by  black  shell-bursts.     We  swerve  aside,  but 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    123 

more  shells  quickly  follow.  The  shooting  is 
particularly  good,  for  the  Archie  people  have 
the  exact  range  of  the  low  clouds  slightly 
above  us.  Three  times  we  hear  the  hiss  of 
flying  fragments  of  high  explosive,  and  the 
lower  left  plane  is  unevenly  punctured.  We 
lose  height  for  a  second  to  gather  speed,  and 
then,  to  my  relief,  the  pilot  zooms  up  to  a 
cloud.  Although  the  gunners  can  no  longer 
see  their  target,  they  loose  off  a  few  more 
rounds  and  trust  to  luck  that  a  stray  shell 
may  find  us.  These  bursts  are  mostly  far 
wide  of  the  mark,  although  two  of  them 
make  ugly  black  blotches  against  the  white- 
ness of  the  vapour  through  which  we  are 
rising. 

Once  more  we  emerge  into  the  open  space 
between  sky  and  cloud.  The  flight-command- 
er takes  the  mouthpiece  of  his  telephone 
tube  and  shouts  to  me  that  he  intends  com- 
pleting the  round  above  the  clouds.  To  let 
me  search  for  railway  and  other  traffic  he 
will  descend  into  view  of  the  ground  at  the 
most  important  points.  He  now  sets  a  com- 
pass course  for  Toutpres,  the  first  large  town 
of    the    reconnaissance,    while    I    search    all 


124  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

around  for  possible  enemies.  At  present  the 
sky  is  clear,  but  at  any  minute  enemy  police 
craft  may  appear  from  the  unbroken  blue  or 
rise  through  the  clouds. 

The  slowness  of  our  ground  speed,  due  to 
the  fierce  wind,  allows  me  plenty  of  time  to 
admire  the  strangely  beautiful  surroundings. 
Above  is  the  inverted  bowl  of  blue,  bright 
for  the  most  part,  but  duller  towards  the 
horizon-rim.  The  sun  pours  down  a  vivid 
light,  which  spreads  quicksilver  iridescence 
over  the  cloud-tops.  Below  is  the  cloud- 
scape,  fantastic  and  far-stretching.  The 
shadow  of  our  machine  is  surrounded  by 
a  halo  of  sunshine  as  it  darts  along  the  ir- 
regular white  surface.  The  clouds  dip,  climb, 
twist,  and  flatten  into  every  conceivable 
shape.  Thrown  together  as  they  never  could 
be  on  solid  earth  are  outlines  of  the  wildest 
and  tamest  features  of  a  world  unspoiled  by 
battlefield,  brick  towns,  ruins,  or  other  ulcers 
on  the  face  of  nature.  Jagged  mountains, 
forests,  dainty  hills,  waterfalls,  heavy  seas, 
plateaux,  precipices,  quiet  lakes,  rolling  plains, 
caverns,  chasms,  and  dead  deserts  merge  into 
one  another,  all  in  a  uniform  white,  as  though 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    125 

wrapped  in  cotton  wool  and  laid  out  for 
inspection  in  haphazard  continuity.  And 
yet,  for  all  its  mad  irregularity,  the  cloud- 
scape  from  above  is  perfectly  harmonious 
and  never  tiring.  One  wants  to  land  on  the 
clean  surface  and  explore  the  jungled  con- 
tinent. Sometimes,  when  passing  a  high  pro- 
jection, the  impulse  comes  to  lean  over  and 
grab  a  handful  of  the  fleecy  covering. 

After  being  shut  off  from  the  ground  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  we  are  able  to  look  down 
through  a  large  chasm.  Two  parallel  canals 
cut  across  it,  and  these  we  take  to  be  part 
of  the  canal  junction  below  Toutpres.  This 
agrees  with  our  estimate  of  speed,  wind, 
and  time,  according  to  which  we  should  be 
near  the  town.  The  pilot  takes  the  machine 
through  the  clouds,  and  we  descend  a  few 
hundred  feet  below  them. 

To  disconcert  Archie  we  travel  in  zigzags, 
while  I  search  for  items  of  interest.  A  train 
is  moving  south,  and  another  is  entering 
Toutpres  from  the  east.  A  few  barges  are 
dotted  among  the  various  canals.  Bordering 
a  wood  to  the  west  is  an  aerodrome.  About 
a  dozen  aeroplanes  are  in  line  on  the  ground, 


126  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

but  the  air  above  it  is  empty  of  Boche  craft. 

Evidently  the  Huns  below  had  not  ex- 
pected a  visit  from  hostile  machines  on  such 
a  day,  for  Archie  allows  several  minutes  to 
pass  before  introducing  himself.  A  black 
puff  then  appears  on  our  level  some  distance 
ahead.  We  change  direction,  but  the  gun- 
ners find  our  new  position  and  send  bursts 
all  round  the  bus.  The  single  wouff  of  the 
first  shot  has  become  a  jerky  chorus  that 
swells  or  dwindles  according  to  the  number 
of  shells  and  their  nearness. 

I  signal  to  the  flight-commander  that  I 
have  finished  with  Toutpres,  whereupon  we 
climb  into  the  clouds  and  comparative  safety. 
We  rise  above  the  white  intangibility  and 
steer  north-east,  in  the  direction  of  Passe- 
menterie. I  continue  to  look  for  possible 
aggressors.  The  necessity  for  a  careful  look- 
out is  shown  when  a  group  of  black  specks 
appears  away  to  the  south,  some  fifteen  hun- 
dred feet  above  us.  In  this  area  and  under 
to-day's  weather  conditions,  the  odds  are  a 
hundred  to  one  that  they  will  prove  to  be 
Boches. 

We  lose  height  until  our  bus  is  on  the 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    127 

fringe  of  the  clouds  and  ready  to  escape 
out  of  sight.  Apparently  the  newcomers  do 
not  spot  us  in  the  first  place,  for  they  are 
flying  transverse  to  our  line  of  flight.  A  few 
minutes  later  they  make  the  discovery,  turn 
in  our  direction,  and  begin  a  concerted  dive. 
All  this  while  I  have  kept  my  field-glasses 
trained  on  them,  and  as  one  machine  turns 
I  can  see  the  Maltese  crosses  painted  on  the 
wings.  The  question  of  the  strangers'  na- 
tionality being  answered,  we  slip  into  a  cloud 
to  avoid  attack. 

The  flight-commander  thinks  it  advisable 
to  remain  hidden  by  keeping  inside  the  clouds. 
He  must  therefore  steer  entirely  by  compass, 
without  sun  or  landmark  to  guide  him.  As 
we  leave  the  clear  air  a  left  movement  of  the 
rudder,  without  corresponding  bank,  swings 
the  machine  to  the  north,  so  that  its  nose 
points  away  from  the  desired  course.  The 
pilot  puts  on  a  fraction  of  right  rudder  to 
counteract  the  deviation.  We  veer  east- 
ward, but  rather  too  much,  if  the  swaying 
needle  of  the  compass  is  to  be  believed.  A 
little  left  rudder  again  puts  the  needle  into 
an  anti-clockwise  motion.     With  his  atten- 


128     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

tion  concentrated  on  our  direction,  the  pilot, 
impatient  at  waiting  for  the  needle  to  be- 
come steady,  unconsciously  kicks  the  rudder- 
controls,  first  to  one  side,  then  to  the  other. 
The  needle  begins  to  swing  around,  and  the 
compass  is  thus  rendered  useless  for  the  time 
being.  For  the  next  minute  or  two,  until  it 
is  safe  to  leave  the  clouds,  the  pilot  must 
now  keep  the  machine  straight  by  instinct, 
and  trust  to  his  sense  of  direction. 

A  similar  mishap  often  happens  when  fly- 
ing through  cloud.  Pilots  have  been  known 
to  declare  that  all  compasses  are  liable  to 
swing  of  their  own  accord  when  in  clouds, 
though  the  real  explanation  is  probably  that 
they  themselves  have  disturbed  the  needle 
unduly  by  a  continuous  pressure  on  each 
side  of  the  rudder-bar  in  turn,  thus  causing 
an  oscillation  of  the  rudder  and  a  consequent 
zigzagged  line  of  flight.  The  trouble  is  more 
serious  than  it  would  seem  to  the  layman, 
as  when  the  compass  is  out  of  action,  and 
no  other  guides  are  available,  one  tends  to 
drift  round  in  a  large  circle,  like  a  man  lost 
in  the  jungle.  Should  the  craft  be  driven 
by  a  rotary  engine,  the  torque,  or  outward 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    129 

wash  from  the  propeller,  may  make  a  ma- 
chine edge  more  and  more  to  the  left,  unless 
the  pilot  is  careful  to  allow  for  this  tendency. 

Such  a  drift  to  the  left  has  taken  us  well 
to  the  north  of  a  straight  line  between  Tout- 
pres  and  Passementerie,  as  we  discover  on 
leaving  the  clouds  for  a  second  or  two,  so 
as  to  correct  the  error  with  the  aid  of  land- 
marks. But  the  compass  has  again  settled 
down  to  good  behaviour,  and  we  are  able 
to  get  a  true  course  before  we  climb  back 
to  the  sheltering  whiteness. 

A  flight  inside  the  clouds  is  far  from 
pleasant.  We  are  hemmed  in  by  a  drifting 
formlessness  that  looks  like  thin  steam,  but, 
unlike  steam,  imparts  a  sensation  of  coldness 
and  clamminess.  The  eye  cannot  penetrate 
farther  than  about  a  yard  beyond  the  wing 
tips.  Nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  the  aero- 
plane, nothing  is  to  be  heard  but  the  droning 
hum  of  the  engine,  which  seems  louder  than 
ever  amid  the  isolation. 

I  am  bored,  cold,  and  uncomfortable.  Time 
drags  along  lamely;  five  minutes  masquerade 
as  half  an  hour,  and  only  by  repeated  glances 
at  the  watch  do  I  convince  myself  that  we 


130     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

cannot  yet  have  reached  the  next  objective. 
I  study  the  map  for  no  particular  reason 
except  that  it  is  something  to  do.  Then  I 
decide  that  the  Lewis  gun  ought  to  be  fired 
as  a  test  whether  the  working  parts  are  still 
in  good  order.  I  hold  the  spade-grip,  swing 
round  the  circular  mounting  until  the  gun 
points  to  the  side,  and  loose  five  rounds 
into  the  unpleasant  vapour.  The  flight-com- 
mander, startled  at  the  sudden  clatter,  turns 
round.  Finding  that  the  fire  was  mine  and 
not  an  enemy's,  he  shakes  his  fist  as  a  pro- 
test against  the  sudden  disturbance.  Even 
this  action  is  welcome,  as  being  evidence  of 
companionship. 

When  the  pilot,  judging  that  Passemen- 
terie should  be  below,  takes  the  machine 
under  the  clouds,  I  feel  an  immense  relief, 
even  though  the  exit  is  certain  to  make  us 
a  target  for  Archie.  We  emerge  slightly  to 
the  west  of  the  town.  There  is  little  to  be 
observed;  the  railways  are  bare  of  trains, 
and  the  station  contains  only  an  average 
number  of  trucks.  Four  black-crossed  aero- 
planes are  flying  over  their  aerodrome  at  a 
height  of  some  two  thousand  feet.    Three  of 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    131 

them  begin  to  climb,  perhaps  in  an  attempt 
to  intercept  us.  However,  our  bus  has  plenty 
of  time  to  disappear,  and  this  we  do  quickly 
— so  quickly  that  the  A.-A.  batteries  have 
only  worried  us  to  the  extent  of  half  a  dozen 
shells,  all  wide  of  the  mark. 

We  rise  right  through  the  white  screen 
into  full  view  of  the  sun.  Apparently  the 
sky  is  clear  of  intruders,  so  we  turn  for 
three-quarters  of  a  circle  and  head  for  Plus- 
pres,  the  third  point  of  call.  The  wind  now 
being  behind  the  machine  in  a  diagonal  di- 
rection, our  speed  in  relation  to  the  ground 
is  twice  the  speed  of  the  outward  half  of 
the  journey.  The  sun  is  pleasantly  warming, 
and  I  look  towards  it  gratefully.  A  few  small 
marks,  which  may  or  may  not  be  sun-spots, 
flicker  across  its  face.  To  get  an  easier  view 
I  draw  my  goggles,  the  smoke-tinted  glasses 
of  which  allow  me  to  look  at  the  glare  with- 
out blinking.  In  a  few  seconds  I  am  able 
to  recognise  the  spots  as  distant  aeroplanes 
moving  in  our  direction.  Probably  they  are 
the  formation  that  we  encountered  on  the 
way  to  Passementerie.  Their  object  in  keep- 
ing between   us   and  the  sun  is  to  remain 


132      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

unobserved  with  the  help  of  the  blinding 
stream  of  light,  which  throws  a  haze  around 
them.  I  call  the  pilot's  attention  to  the 
scouts,  and  yet  again  we  fade  into  the  clouds. 
This  time,  with  the  sixty-mile  wind  as  our 
friend,  there  is  no  need  to  remain  hidden  for 
long.  Quite  soon  we  shall  have  to  descend 
to  look  at  Pluspres,  the  most  dangerous  point 
on  the  round. 

When  we  take  another  look  at  earth  I 
find  that  the  pilot  has  been  exact  in  timing 
our  arrival  at  the  important  Boche  base — 
too  exact,  indeed,  for  we  find  ourselves  di- 
rectly over  the  centre  of  the  town.  Only 
somebody  who  has  been  Archied  from  Plus- 
pres can  realise  what  it  means  to  fly  right 
over  the  stronghold  at  four  thousand  feet. 
The  advanced  lines  of  communication  that 
stretch  westward  to  the  Arras-Peronne  front 
all  hinge  on  Pluspres,  and  for  this  reason  it 
often  shows  activity  of  interest  to  the  aero- 
plane observer  and  his  masters.  The  Ger- 
mans are  therefore  highly  annoyed  when 
British  aircraft  arrive  on  a  tour  of  inspection. 
To  voice  their  indignation  they  have  concen- 
trated many  anti-aircraft  guns  around  the 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    133 

town.  What  is  worse,  the  Archie  fire  at 
Pluspres  is  more  accurate  than  at  any  other 
point  away  from  the  actual  front,  as  witness 
the  close  bracket  formed  by  the  sighting 
shots  that  greet  our  solitary  bus. 

From  a  hasty  glance  at  the  station  and 
railway  lines,  while  we  slip  away  to  another 
level,  I  gather  that  many  trains  and  much 
rolling  stock  are  to  be  bagged.  The  work 
will  have  to  be  done  under  serious  difficulties 
in  the  shape  of  beastly  black  bursts  and  the 
repeated  changes  of  direction  necessary  to 
dodge  them.  We  bank  sharply,  side-slip,  lose 
height,  regain  it,  and  perform  other  erratic 
evolutions  likely  to  spoil  the  gunners'  aim; 
but  the  area  is  so  closely  sprinkled  by  shells 
that,  to  whatever  point  the  machine  swerves, 
we  always  hear  the  menacing  report  of  burst- 
ing H.E. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  observe  accurately 
while  in  my  present  condition  of  "wind  up," 
created  by  the  coughing  of  Archie.  I  lean 
over  to  count  the  stationary  trucks  in  the 
sidings.  "Wouff,  wouff,  woujf"  interrupts 
Archie  from  a  spot  deafeningly  near;  and  I 
withdraw  into  "the  office,"  otherwise  the  ob- 


134  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

server's  cockpit.  Follows  a  short  lull,  during 
which  I  make  another  attempt  to  count  the 
abnormal  amount  of  rolling  stock.  "Wouff — 
Hs — sss! "  shrieks  another  shell,  as  it  throws 
a  large  H.E.  splinter  past  our  tail.  Again 
I  put  my  head  in  the  office.  I  write  down 
an  approximate  estimate  of  the  number  of 
trucks,  and  no  longer  attempt  to  sort  them 
out,  so  many  to  a  potential  train.  A  hunt 
over  the  railway  system  reveals  no  fewer 
than  twelve  trains.  These  I  pencil-point  on 
my  map,  as  far  as  I  am  able  to  locate  them. 

A  massed  collection  of  vehicles  remain  sta- 
tionary in  what  must  be  either  a  large  square 
or  the  market-place.  I  attempt  to  count 
them,  but  am  stopped  by  a  report  louder 
than  any  of  the  preceding  ones.  Next  in- 
stant I  find  myself  pressed  tightly  against 
the  seat.  The  whole  of  the  machine  is  lifted 
about  a  hundred  feet  by  the  compression 
from  a  shell  that  has  exploded  a  few  yards 
beneath  our  under-carriage.  I  begin  to  won- 
der whether  all  our  troubles  have  been  swept 
away  by  a  direct  hit;  but  an  examination  of 
the  machine  shows  no  damage  beyond  a 
couple  of  rents  in  the  fabric  of  the  fuselage. 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    135 

That  finishes  my  observation  work  for  the 
moment.  Not  with  a  court-martial  as  the 
only  alternative  could  I  carry  on  the  job 
until  we  have  left  Archie's  inferno  of  fright- 
fulness.  The  flight-commander  is  of  the 
same  mind,  and  we  nose  into  the  clouds, 
pursued  to  the  last  by  the  insistent  smoke- 
puffs. 

When  the  bus  is  once  again  flying  between 
sky  and  cloud,  we  begin  to  feel  more  at 
home.  No  other  craft  come  within  range  of 
vision,  so  that  without  interruption  we  reach 
Accoin,  the  fourth  railway  junction  to  be 
spied  upon.  The  rolling  stock  there  is  scarcely 
enough  for  two  train-loads,  and  no  active 
trains  can  be  spotted.  We  hover  above  the 
town  for  a  minute,  and  then  leave  for  Bois- 
lens. 

The  machine  now  points  westward  and 
homeward,  and  thus  has  the  full  benefit  of 
the  wind,  which  accelerates  our  ground  speed 
to  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  an  hour. 
The  gods  take  it  into  their  heads  to  be  kind, 
for  we  are  not  obliged  to  descend  through 
the  clouds  over  Boislens,  as  the  region  can 
be  seen  plainly  through  a  gap  large  enough 


136      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

to  let  me  count  the  R.S.  and  note  that  a 
train,  with  steam  up,  stands  in  the  station. 

As  Boislens  is  the  last  town  mentioned  by 
the  H.Q.  people  who  mapped  out  the  recon- 
naissance, the  job  is  all  but  completed.  Yet 
twelve  miles  still  separate  us  from  the 
nearest  bend  of  the  trench  line,  and  a  twelve- 
mile  area  contains  plenty  of  room  for  a  fight. 
Since  the  open  atmosphere  shows  no  warn- 
ing of  an  attack,  I  look  closely  toward  the 
sun — for  a  fast  scout  will  often  try  to  sur- 
prise a  two-seater  by  approaching  between 
its  quarry  and  the  sun. 

At  first  I  am  conscious  of  nothing  but  a 
strong  glare;  but  when  my  goggled  eyes  be- 
come accustomed  to  the  brightness,  I  see, 
or  imagine  I  see,  an  indistinct  oblong  object 
surrounded  by  haze.  I  turn  away  for  a 
second  to  avoid  the  oppressive  light.  On 
seeking  the  sun  again  I  find  the  faint  oblong 
more  pronounced.  For  one  instant  it  devi- 
ates from  the  straight  line  between  our  bus 
and  the  sun,  and  I  then  recognise  it  as  an 
aeroplane.  I  also  discover  that  a  second 
machine  is  hovering  two  thousand  feet  above 
the  first. 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    137 

The  chief  hobby  of  the  flight-commander 
is  to  seek  a  scrap.  Immediately  I  make 
known  to  him  the  presence  of  hostile  craft 
he  tests  his  gun  in  readiness  for  a  fight. 
Knowing  by  experience  that  if  he  starts 
manoeuvring  round  a  Hun  he  will  not  break 
away  while  there  is  the  slightest  chance  of  a 
victory,  I  remind  him,  by  means  of  a  note- 
book leaf,  that  since  our  job  is  a  reconnais- 
sance, the  R.F.C.  law  is  to  return  quickly 
with  our  more  or  less  valuable  information, 
and  to  abstain  from  such  luxuries  as  unnec- 
sary  fights,  unless  a  chance  can  be  seized 
over  British  ground.  Although  he  does  not 
seem  too  pleased  at  the  reminder  he  puts 
down  the  nose  of  the  machine,  so  as  to  cross 
the  lines  in  the  shortest  possible  time. 

The  first  Hun  scout  continues  the  dive  to 
within  three  hundred  yards,  at  which  range 
I  fire  a  few  short  bursts,  by  way  of  an  an- 
nouncement to  the  Boche  that  we  are  ready 
for  him  and  protected  from  the  rear.  He 
flattens  out  and  sits  behind  our  tail  at  a 
respectful  distance,  until  the  second  scout 
has  joined  him.  The  two  separate  and  pre- 
pare to  swoop  down  one  from  each  side. 


138     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

But  we  are  now  passing  the  trenches,  and 
just  as  one  of  our  attackers  begins  to  dive, 
a  formation  of  de  Havilands  (British  pusher 
scouts)  arrives  to  investigate.  The  second 
Boche  plants  himself  between  us  and  the 
new-comers,  while  his  companion  continues 
to  near  until  he  is  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
from  us.  At  this  range  I  rattle  through  the 
rest  of  the  ammunition  drum,  and  the  Hun 
swerves  aside.  We  now  recognise  the  ma- 
chine as  an  Albatross  scout  or  "German 
spad,"  a  most  successful  type  that  only  en- 
tered the  lists  a  fortnight  beforehand.  Find- 
ing that  they  have  to  reckon  with  five 
de  Havilands,  the  two  Huns  turn  sharply 
and  race  eastward,  their  superior  speed  sav- 
ing them  from  pursuit. 

We  pass  through  the  clouds  for  the  last 
time  on  the  trip,  and  fly  home  very  soberly, 
while  I  piece  together  my  hurried  notes. 
The  Squadron  Commander  meets  us  in  the 
aerodrome  with  congratulations  and  a  desire 
for  information. 

"Seen  anything?"  he  asks. 

"Fourteen  trains  and  some  M.T.,"  I 
reply. 


A  CLOUD  RECONNAISSANCE    139 

"And  a  few  thousand  clouds,"  adds  the 
flight-commander. 

By  the  time  I  have  returned  from  the 
delivery  of  my  report  at  G.H.Q.,  the  wing 
office  has  sent  orders  that  we  are  to  receive 
a  mild  censure  for  carrying  out  a  reconnais- 
sance with  only  one  machine.  The  Squad- 
ron Commander  grins  as  he  delivers  the 
reproof,  so  that  we  do  not  feel  altogether 
crushed. 

"Don't  do  it  again,"  he  concludes. 

As  we  have  not  the  least  desire  to  do  it 
again,  the  order  is  likely  to  be  obeyed. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ENDS  AND   ODDS. 

As  a  highly  irresponsible  prophet  I  am  con- 
vinced that  towards  the  end  of  the  war 
hostilities  in  the  air  will  become  as  decisive 
as  hostilities  on  land  or  sea.  An  obvious 
corollary  is  that  the  how  and  when  of  peace's 
coming  must  be  greatly  influenced  by  the 
respective  progress,  during  the  next  two 
years,  of  the  belligerents'  flying  services. 

This  view  is  far  less  fantastic  than  the 
whirlwind  development  of  war-flying  wit- 
nessed by  all  of  us  since  1914.  Indeed,  to 
anybody  with  a  little  imagination  and  some 
knowledge  of  what  is  in  preparation  among 
the  designers  and  inventors  of  various  coun- 
tries, that  statement  would  seem  more  self- 
evident  than  extreme.  Even  the  average 
spectator  of  aeronautical  advance  in  the  past 
three  years  must  see  that  if  anything  like 
the  same  rate  of  growth  be  maintained,  by 
the  end  of  1918  aircraft  numbered  in  tens 
of  thousands  and  with  extraordinary  capa- 

140 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  141 

cities  for  speed,  climb,  and  attack  will  make 
life  a  burden  to  ground  troops,  compromise 
lines  of  communication,  cause  repeated  havoc 
to  factories  and  strongholds,  and  promote 
loss  of  balance  among  whatever  civilian  pop- 
ulations come  within  range  of  their  activity. 
To  emphasise  the  startling  nature  of  aero- 
nautical expansion — past,  present,  and  future 
—let  us  trace  briefly  the  progress  of  the 
British  Flying  Corps  from  pre-war  conditions 
to  their  present  state  of  high  efficiency.  When 
the  Haldane-Asquith  brotherhood  were  caught 
napping,  the  Flying  Corps  possessed  a  seventy 
odd  (very  odd)  aeroplanes,  engined  by 
the  unreliable  Gnome  and  the  low-powered 
Renault.  Fortunately  it  also  possessed  some 
very  able  officers,  and  these  succeeded  at  the 
outset  in  making  good  use  of  doubtful  ma- 
terial. One  result  of  the  necessary  recon- 
struction was  that  a  large  section  of  the 
original  corps  seceded  to  the  Navy  and  the 
remainder  came  under  direct  control  of  the 
Army.  The  Royal  Naval  Air  Service  began 
to  specialise  in  bomb  raids,  while  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps  (Military  Wing)  sent  whatever 
machines  it  could  lay  hands  on  to  join  the 


142  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS  . 

old  conteniptibles  in  France.  Both  services 
proceeded  to  increase  in  size  and  importance 
at  break-neck  speed. 

The  rapid  expansion  of  the  R.N.A.S.  al- 
lowed for  a  heavy  surplus  of  men  and  ma- 
chines beyond  the  supply  necessary  for  the 
purely  naval  branch  of  the  service.  C  From 
this  force  a  number  of  squadrons  went  to 
the  Dardanelles,  Africa,  the  Tigris,  and  other 
subsidiary  theatres  of  war;  and  an  important 
base  was  established  at  Dunkirk,  whence 
countless  air  attacks  were  made  on  all  mili- 
tary centres  in  Belgium.  Many  more  R.N. 
A.S.  squadrons,  well  provided  with  trained 
pilots  and  good  machines,  patrolled  the  East 
Coast  while  waiting  for  an  opportunity  of 
active  service.  This  came  early  in  1917, 
when,  under  the  wise  supervision  of  the 
Air  Board,  the  section  of  the  Naval  Air 
Service  not  concerned  with  naval  .matters 
was  brought  into  close  touch  with  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps,  after  it  had  pursued  a  lone 
trail  for  two  years.  The  Flying  Corps  units 
on  the  Western  Front  and  elsewhere  are  now 
splendidly  backed  by  help  from  the  sister 
service.     For  the  present  purpose,  therefore, 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  143 

the  military  efforts  of  the  R.N.A.S.  can  be 
included  with  those  of  the  R.F.C.,  after  a 
tribute  has  been  paid  to  the  bombing  offen- 
sives for  which  the  Naval  Air  Service  has 
always  been  famous,  from  early  exploits  with 
distant  objectives  such  as  Cuxhaven  and 
Friedrichshafen  to  this  year's  successful  at- 
tacks on  German  munition  works,  in  con- 
junction with  the  French,  and  the  countless 
trips  from  Dunkirk  that  are  making  the  Zee- 
brugge-Ostend-Bruges  sector  such  an  unhappy 
home-from-home  for  U-boats,  destroyers,  and 
raiding  aircraft.  Meanwhile  the  seaplane 
branch,  about  which  little  is  heard,  has 
reached  a  high  level  of  efficiency.  When  the 
screen  of  secrecy  is  withdrawn  from  the 
North  Sea,  we  shall  hear  very  excellent  sto- 
ries of  what  the  seaplanes  have  accomplished 
lately  in  the  way  of  scouting,  chasing  the 
Zeppelin,  and  hunting  the  U-boat. 

But  from  the  nature  of  its  purpose,  the 
R.F.C.  has  borne  the  major  part  of  our 
aerial  burden  during  the  war.  In  doing  so, 
it  has  grown  from  a  tiny  band  of  enthusiasts 
and  experimentalists  to  a  great  service  which 
can    challenge    comparison    with    any    other 


144      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

branch  of  the  Army.     The  history  of  this 
attainment  is  intensely  interesting. 

The  few  dozen  airmen  who  accompanied 
the  contemptible  little  army  on  the  retreat 
from  Mons  had  no  precedents  from  other 
campaigns  to  guide  them,  and  the  some- 
what vague  dictum  that  their  function  was 
to  gather  information  had  to  be  interpreted 
by  pioneer  methods.  These  were  satisfac- 
tory under  the  then  conditions  of  warfare, 
inasmuch  as  valuable  information  certainly 
was  gathered  during  the  retreat,  when  a 
blind  move  would  have  meant  disaster, — 
how  valuable  only  the  chiefs  of  the  hard- 
pressed  force  can  say.  This  involved  more 
than  the  average  difficulties,  for  as  the  battle 
swayed  back  towards  Paris  new  landing- 
grounds  had  to  be  sought,  and  temporary 
aerodromes  improvised  every  few  days.  The 
small  collection  of  serviceable  aeroplanes 
again  justified  themselves  at  the  decisive 
stand  in  the  Marne  and  Ourcq  basin,  where 
immediate  reports  of  enemy  concentra- 
tions were  essential  to  victory.  Again.,  after 
the  Hun  had  been  swept  across  the  Aisne 
and  was  stretching  north-eastward  tentacles 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  14S 

to  clutch  as  much  of  the  coast  as  was  con- 
sonant with  an  unbroken  line,  the  aerial 
spying  out  of  the  succeeding  phases  of  re- 
tirement was  of  great  service.  Indeed,  ten- 
tative though  it  was,  the  work  of  the  British, 
French,  and  German  machines  before  the 
advent  of  trench  warfare  proved  how  greatly 
air  reconnaissance  would  alter  the  whole  per- 
spective of  an  open  country  campaign. 

After  the  long  barrier  of  trenches  dead- 
locked the  chances  of  extended  movement 
and  opened  the  dreary  months  of  more  or 
less  stationary  warfare,  the  R.F.C.  organi- 
sation in  France  had  time  and  space  for 
self-development.  Aerodromes  were  selected 
and  erected,  the  older  and  less  satisfactory 
types  of  machine  were  replaced  by  the  stable 
B.E2.C,  the  active  service  squadrons  were 
reconstructed  and  multiplied. 

To  the  observation  of  what  happened  be- 
hind the  actual  front  was  added  the  mapping 
of  the  enemy's  intricate  trench-mosaic.  For 
a  month  or  two  this  was  accomplished  by 
the  methodical  sketches  of  a  few  observers. 
It  was  an  exceedingly  difficult  task  to  trace 
every   trench   and   sap  and   to  pattern   the 


146      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

network  from  a  height  of  about  2000  feet, 
but  the  infantry  found  small  ground  for 
dissatisfaction  as  regards  the  accuracy  or 
completeness  of  the  observers'  drawings. 
Then  came  the  introduction  of  aerial  photog- 
raphy on  a  large  scale,  and  with  it  a  com- 
plete bird's-eye  plan  of  all  enemy  defence 
works,  pieced  together  from  a  series  of  over- 
head snapshots  that  reproduced  the  com- 
plete trench-line,  even  to  such  details  as 
barbed  wire.  By  the  infallible  revelations  of 
the  camera,  untricked  by  camouflage,  con- 
cealed gun  positions  were  spotted  for  the 
benefit  of  our  artillery,  and  highly  useful  in- 
formation about  likely  objectives  was  pro- 
vided for  the  bombing  craft. 

The  frequent  bombing  of  German  supply 
centres  in  Belgium  and  North  France  came 
into  being  with  the  development  of  aerial 
photography.  Owing  to  the  difficulty  of  cor- 
rect aim,  before  the  advent  of  modern  bomb- 
sights,  all  the  early  raids  were  carried  out 
from  a  low  altitude,  sometimes  from  only  a 
few  hundred  feet.  For  every  purpose,  more- 
over, low  altitudes  were  the  rule  in  the  earlier 
months  of  the  war,  as  most  of  the  machines 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  147 

would  not  climb  above  4000-7000  feet.  Much 
of  the  observation  was  performed  at  some- 
thing between  1000  and  2000  feet,  so  that 
aircraft  often  returned  with  a  hundred  or  so 
bullet-holes  in  them. 

Meanwhile  the  important  work  of  artillery 
spotting  was  being  developed.  New  systems 
of  co-operation  between  artillery  and  aero- 
planes were  devised,  tested,  and  improved. 
At  first  lamps  or  Very's  lights  were  used  to 
signal  code-corrections,  but  these  were  soon 
replaced  by  wireless  transmission  from  the 
observation  machine.  Targets  which  could 
not  be  ranged  on  through  ground  observa- 
tion posts  became  targets  no  longer,  after  one 
shoot  ranged  from  the  air.  As  the  number 
of  available  aircraft  increased,  so  did  the 
amount  of  observation  for  the  guns,  until 
finally  the  entire  front  opposite  the  British 
was  registered  for  bombardment  and  divided 
into  sections  covered  by  specified  artillery 
machines. 

Aerial  fighting,  now  so  essential  and  scien- 
tific a  branch  of  modern  war,  was  rudimen- 
tary in  1914.  Pilots  and  observers  of  the 
original  Flying  Corps  carried  revolvers,  and 


148  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

many  observers  also  equipped  themselves  with 
rifles,  but  the  aeroplanes  were  not  fitted  with 
machine-guns.  Such  scraps  as  there  were 
consisted  of  one  machine  manoeuvring  round 
an  opponent  at  close  quarters  for  the  chance 
of  a  well-aimed  shot.  Under  these  circum- 
stances to  "bring  down"  or  "drive  down  out 
of  control"  an  enemy  was  extremely  difficult, 
though  a  very  gallant  officer,  since  killed  in 
action,  once  killed  two  German  pilots  within 
five  minutes  with  his  revolver, 

Soon  the  possibilities  of  aerial  machine- 
guns  were  quickly  recognised.  The  R.F.C. 
adopted  the  Lewis,  which  from  the  points 
of  view  of  lightness  and  handiness  was  well 
suited  for  aircraft,  and  the  German  airmen 
countered  with  a  modified  Hotchkiss  and 
other  types. 

But  the  stable  observation  machines,  while 
excellent  for  reconnaissance  and  artillery  spot- 
ting, allowed  their  crews  only  a  small  arc  of 
fire,  and  not  until  the  German  single-seater 
scouts  and  our  Bristol  scout,  then  a  com- 
paratively fast  machine,  appeared  en  the 
western  front  in  the  spring  of  1915  did  the 
destruction  of  aeroplanes  become  an  everyday 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  149 

occurrence.  With  the  introduction  of  scouts 
for  escort  and  protective  duties  came  forma- 
tion flying  and  concerted  attack. 

Fighting  craft  continued  to  increase  in 
speed  and  numbers.  As  the  struggle  became 
more  and  more  intense,  so  did  the  scene  of  it 
move  higher  and  higher,  prodded  by  an  ever- 
growing capacity  for  climb  and  the  ever- 
growing menace  of  the  anti-aircraft  guns. 
The  average  air  battle  of  to-day  begins  at 
an  altitude  between  12,000  and  20,000  feet. 

The  conflict  for  mechanical  superiority  has 
had  its  ebb  and  flow,  and  consequently  of  its 
proportional  casualties;  but  the  British  have 
never  once  been  turned  from  their  programme 
of  observation.  There  have  been  critical 
times,  as  for  example  when  the  Fokker 
scourge  of  late  1915  and  early  1916  laid  low 
so  many  of  the  observation  craft.  But  the 
Fokkers  were  satisfactorily  dealt  with  by  the 
de  Haviland  and  the  F.E8.  pusher  scouts  and 
the  F.E.  "battleplane,"  as  the  newspapers  of 
the  period  delighted  to  call  it.  Next  the 
pendulum  swung  towards  the  British,  who 
kept  the  whip  hand  during  the  summer  and 
autumn  of  last  year.     Even  when  the  Boche 


150     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

again  made  a  bid  for  ascendancy  with  the 
Halberstadt,  the  Roland,  the  improved  L. 
V.G.,  and  the  modern  Albatross  scout,  the 
Flying  Corps  organisation  kept  the  situation 
well  in  hand,  though  the  supply  of  faster 
machines  was  complicated  by  the  claims  of 
the  R.N.A.S.  squadrons  in  England. 

Throughout  the  Somme  Push  we  were  able 
to  maintain  that  aerial  superiority  without 
which  a  great  offensive  cannot  succeed.  This 
was  partly  the  result  of  good  organisation 
and  partly  of  the  fighting  capabilities  of  the 
men  who  piloted  the  Sopwith,  the  Nieuport, 
the  de  Haviland,  the  F.E.,  and  other  1916 
planes  which  were  continually  at  grips  with 
the  Hun.  The  German  airmen,  with  their 
"travelling  circuses"  of  twelve  to  fifteen  fast 
scouts,  once  more  had  an  innings  in  the  spring 
of  the  current  year,  and  the  older  types  of 
British  machine  were  hard  put  to  it  to  cany 
through  their  regular  work.  Then  came  the 
great  day  when  scores  of  our  new  machines, 
husbanded  for  the  occasion,  engaged  the 
enemy  hell-for-leather  at  his  own  place  in 
the  air.  An  untiring  offensive  was  continued 
by  our  patrols,  and  the  temporary  supremacy 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  151 

passed  into  British  hands,  where  it  very 
definitely  remains,  and  where,  if  the  shadows 
of  coming  events  and  the  silhouettes  of  com- 
ing machines  materialise,  it  is  likely  to  re- 
main. 

Judged  on  a  basis  of  losses,  the  unceasing 
struggle  between  aeroplane  and  aeroplane 
would  seem  to  have  been  fairly  equal,  though 
it  must  be  remembered  that  three-quarters 
of  the  fighting  has  had  for  its  milieu  the 
atmosphere  above  enemy  territory.  Judged 
on  a  basis  of  the  maintenance  of  adequate 
observation,  which  is  the  primary  object  of 
aerial  attack  and  defence,  the  British  have 
won  consistently.  At  no  time  has  the  R.F.C. 
been  obliged  to  modify  its  duties  of  recon- 
naissance, artillery  spotting,  photography,  or 
co-operation  with  advancing  infantry,  which 
was  introduced  successfully  last  summer.  On 
the  contrary,  each  of  these  functions,  together 
with  bombing  and  "ground  stunts"  from  low 
altitudes,  has  swollen  to  an  abnormal  extent. 

An  idea  of  the  vastness  of  our  aerial  effort 
on  the  British  front  in  France  can  be  gath- 
ered from  the  R.F.C.  work  performed  on  a 
typical  "big  push"  day. 


152     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

Throughout  the  night  preceding  an  ad- 
vance, several  parties,  laden  with  heavy 
bombs,  steer  by  compass  to  Hun  headquar- 
ters or  other  objectives,  and  return  no 
longer  laden  with  bombs.  The  first  streak 
of  daylight  is  the  herald  of  an  exodus  from 
west  to  east  of  many  score  fighting  craft. 
These  cross  the  lines,  hover  among  the 
Archie  bursts,  and  drive  back  or  down  all 
black-crossed  strangers  within  sight.  Some 
of  them  go  farther  afield  and  attack  the 
Boche  above  his  own  aerodromes.  Such 
enemy  craft  as  manage  to  take  the  air  with- 
out meeting  trouble  from  the  advanced  of- 
fensive patrols  are  tackled  by  the  scouts 
near  the  lines.  The  few  that  travel  still 
farther  eastward  with  the  intention  of  swoop- 
ing on  our  observation  machines,  or  of  them- 
selves gathering  information,  receive  a  hearty 
welcome  from  our  defensive  patrols. 

The  British  two-seaters  are  thus  free  to 
direct  the  artillery,  link  the  attacking  in- 
fantry with  headquarters,  and  spy  out  the 
land.  As  soon  as  the  early  morning  light 
allows,  a  host  of  planes  will  be  darting  back- 
ward  and   forward   over   the   trench-line   as 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  153 

they  guide  the  terrific  bombardment  prelim- 
inary to  an  attack.  Other  machines  are 
searching  for  new  emplacements  and  signs  of 
preparation  behind  the  enemy  trenches.  Sev- 
eral formations  carry  out  tactical  reconnais- 
sances around  an  area  stretching  from  the 
lines  to  a  radius  twenty  miles  east  of  them, 
and  further  parties  perform  strategic  recon- 
naissance by  covering  the  railways,  roads, 
and  canals  that  link  the  actual  front  with 
bases  thirty  to  ninety  miles  behind  it.  When, 
at  a  scheduled  time,  the  infantry  emerge 
over  the  top  behind  a  curtain  of  shells,  the 
contact  patrol  buses  follow  their  doings,  in- 
form the  gunners  of  any  necessary  modifi- 
cations in  the  barrage,  or  of  some  trouble- 
some nest  of  machine-guns,  note  the  positions 
held  by  the  attackers,  collect  signals  from 
the  battalion  headquarters,  and  by  means  of 
message  bags  dropped  over  brigade  head- 
quarters report  progress  to  the  staff.  If, 
later,  a  further  advance  be  made,  the  low- 
flying  contact  machines  again  play  their  part 
of  mothering  the  infantry. 

Machines  fitted  with  cameras  photograph 
every   inch   of   the   defences   improvised   by 


154     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  enemy,  and,  as  insurance  against  being 
caught  unprepared  by  a  counter-attack,  an 
immediate  warning  of  whatever  movement  is 
in  evidence  on  the  lines  of  communication 
will  be  supplied  by  the  reconnaissance  ob- 
servers. Under  the  direction  of  artillery 
squadrons  the  guns  pound  the  new  Boche 
front  line  and  range  on  troublesome  bat- 
teries. 

The  bombing  craft  are  responsible  for  on- 
slaughts on  railways,  supply  depots,  garrison 
towns,  headquarters,  aerodromes,  and  chance 
targets.  Other  guerilla  work  is  done  by 
craft  which,  from  a  height  of  anything  under 
a  thousand  feet,  machine-gun  whatever  worth- 
while objects  they  spot.  A  column  of  troops 
on  the  march,  transport,  ammunition  wag- 
gons, a  train,  a  stray  motor-car — all  these  are 
greeted  joyfully  by  the  pilots  who  specialise 
in  ground  stunts.  And  at  every  hour  of  day- 
light the  scouts  and  fighting  two-seaters  pro- 
tect the  remainder  of  the  R.F.C.  by  engaging 
all  Huns  who  take  to  the  air. 

Doubtless,  when  sunset  has  brought  the 
roving  birds  back  to  their  nest,  there  will  be 
a  few  "missing";  but  this,  part  of  the  day's 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  155 

work,  is  a  small  enough  sacrifice  for  the  gen- 
eral achievement — the  staff  supplied  with 
quick  and  accurate  information,  a  hundred 
or  two  Boche  batteries  silenced,  important 
works  destroyed,  enemy  communications  im- 
peded, a  dozen  or  so  black-crossed  aeroplanes 
brought  down,  valuable  photographs  and  re- 
ports obtained,  and  the  ground-Hun  of  every 
species  harried. 

The  German  Flying  Corps  cannot  claim  to 
perform  anything  like  the  same  amount  of 
aerial  observation  as  its  British  counterpart. 
It  is  mainly  occupied  in  fighting  air  battles 
and  hampering  the  foreign  machines  that 
spy  on  their  army.  To  say  that  the  German 
machines  are  barred  altogether  from  recon- 
naissance and  artillery  direction  would  be 
exaggeration,  but  not  wild  exaggeration. 
Seldom  can  an  enemy  plane  call  and  correct 
artillery  fire  for  longer  than  half  an  hour. 
From  time  to  time  a  fast  machine  makes  a 
reconnaissance  tour  at  a  great  height,  and 
from  time  to  time  others  dart  across  the 
lines  for  photography,  or  to  search  for  gun 
positions.  An  appreciable  proportion  of  these 
do  not  return.    Four-fifths  of  the  Hun  bomb 


156      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

raids  behind  our  front  take  place  at  night- 
time, when  comparative  freedom  from  at- 
tack is  balanced  by  impossibility  of  accurate 
aim.  Apart  from  these  spasmodic  activities, 
the  German  pilots  concern  themselves  en- 
tirely with  attempts  to  prevent  allied  obser- 
vation. They  have  never  yet  succeeded,  even 
during  the  periods  of  their  nearest  approach 
to  the  so-called  "mastery  of  the  air,"  and 
probably  they  never  will  succeed.  The  ad- 
vantages attendant  upon  a  maintenance  of 
thorough  observation,  while  whittling  down 
the  enemy's  to  a  minimum,  cannot  be  over- 
estimated. 

To  determine  how  much  credit  for  the 
brilliant  achievement  I  have  tried  to  out- 
line belongs  to  the  skill  and  adaptability  of 
British  airmen,  and  how  much  to  successful 
organisation,  would  be  difficult  and  rather 
unnecessary.  But  it  is  obvious  that  those 
who  guided  the  R.F.C.  from  neglected  be- 
ginnings to  the  status  of  a  great  air  service 
had  a  tremendous  task.  Only  the  technical 
mind  can  realise  all  that  it  has  involved  in  the 
production  of  trained  personnel,  aeroplanes, 
engines,  aircraft  depots,  aerodromes,  wireless 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  157 

equipment,  photographic  workshops  and  ac- 
cessories, bombs,  and  a  thousand  and  one 
other  necessaries. 

Many  thousand  pilots  have  been  trained 
in  all  the  branches  of  war  flying.  The  num- 
ber of  squadrons  now  in  France  would  sur- 
prise the  layman  if  one  were  allowed  to  make 
it  public;  while  other  squadrons  have  done 
excellent  work  in  Macedonia,  Egypt,  Meso- 
potamia, East  Africa,  and  elsewhere.  Men- 
tion must  also  be  made  of  the  Home  Defence 
groups,  but  for  which  wholesale  Zeppelin 
raids  on  the  country  would  be  of  common 
occurrence. 

How  to  make  best  use  of  the  vast  per- 
sonnel in  France  is  the  business  of  the  staff, 
who  link  the  fighting  members  of  the  corps 
with  the  Intelligence  Department  and  the 
rest  of  the  Army  in  the  field.  To  them  has 
fallen  the  introduction  and  development  of 
the  various  functions  of  war  aircraft,  besides 
the  planning  of  bomb  raids  and  concerted 
aerial  offensives.  On  the  equipment  side 
there  is  an  enormous  wastage  to  be  dealt 
with,  and  consequently  a  constant  cross- 
Channel     interchange     of     machines.       The 


158     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

amount  of  necessary  replacement  is  made 
specially  heavy  by  the  short  life  of  effective 
craft.  A  type  of  machine  is  good  for  a  few 
months  of  active  service,  just  holds  its  own 
for  a  few  more,  and  then  becomes  obsolete 
except  as  a  training  bus.  To  surpass  or  even 
keep  pace  with  the  Boche  Flying  Corps  on 
the  mechanical  side,  it  has  been  necessary 
for  the  supply  department  to  do  a  brisk 
trade  in  new  ideas  and  designs,  experiment, 
improvement,  and  scrapping. 

Although  free-lance  attacks  by  airmen  on 
whatever  takes  their  fancy  down  below  are 
now  common  enough,  they  were  unknown 
little  over  a  year  ago.  Their  early  history  is 
bound  up  with  the  introduction  of  contact 
patrols,  or  co-operation  with  advancing  in- 
fantry. Previous  to  the  Somme  Push  of 
1916,  communication  during  an  attack  be- 
tween infantry  on  the  one  hand  and  the  guns 
and  various  headquarters  on  t"he  other  was  a 
difficult  problem.  A  battalion  would  go  over 
the  top  and  disappear  into  the  enemy  lines. 
It  might  have  urgent  need  of  reinforcements 
or  of  a  concentrated  fire  on  some  dangerous 
spot.    Yet  to  make  known  its  wants  quickly 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  159 

was  by  no  means  easy,  for  the  telephone 
wires  were  usually  cut,  carrier-pigeons  went 
astray,  and  runners  were  liable  to  be  shot. 
When  the  British  introduced  the  "creeping 
barrage"  of  artillery  pounding,  which  moved 
a  little  ahead  of  the  infantry  and  curtained 
them  from  machine-gun  and  rifle  fire,  the 
need  for  rapid  communication  was  greater 
than  ever.  Exultant  attackers  would  rush 
forward  in  advance  of  the  programmed  speed 
and  be  mown  by  their  own  barrage. 

Credit  for  the  trial  use  of  the  aeroplane  to 
link  artillery  with  infantry  belongs  to  the  Brit- 
ish, though  the  French  at  Verdun  first  brought 
the  method  to  practical  success.  We  then 
developed  the  idea  on  the  Somme  with  nota- 
ble results.  Stable  machines,  equipped  with 
wireless  transmitters  and  Klaxton  horns,  flew 
at  a  low  height  over  detailed  sectors,  observed 
all  developments,  signalled  back  guidance  for 
the  barrage,  and  by  means  of  message  bags 
supplied  headquarters  with  valuable  informa- 
tion. Besides  its  main  purpose  of  mothering 
the  infantry,  the  new  system  of  contact 
patrols  was  found  to  be  useful  in  dealing  with 
enemy  movements  directly  behind  the  front 


160     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

line.  If  the  bud  of  a  counter-attack  appeared, 
aeroplanes  would  call  upon  the  guns  to  nip 
it  before  it  had  time  to  blossom. 

Last  September  we  of  the  fighting  and 
reconnaissance  squadrons  began  to  hear  in- 
teresting yarns  from  the  corps  squadrons 
that  specialised  in  contact  patrols.  An  ob- 
server saved  two  battalions  from  extinction 
by  calling  up  reinforcements  in  the  nick  of 
time.  When  two  tanks  slithered  around  the 
ruins  of  Courcelette  two  hours  before  the 
razed  village  was  stormed,  the  men  in  the 
trenches  would  have  known  nothing  of  this 
unexpected  advance-guard  but  for  a  contact 
machine.  The  pilot  and  observer  of  another 
bus  saw  two  tanks  converging  eastward  at 
either  end  of  a  troublesome  Boche  trench.  A 
German  officer,  peering  round  a  corner,  drew 
back  quickly  when  he  found  one  of  the  new 
steel  beasts  advancing.  He  hurried  to  an 
observation  post  round  a  bend  in  the  lines. 
Arrived  there,  he  got  the  shock  of  his  life 
when  he  found  a  second  metal  monster 
waddling  towards  liim.  Alarmed  and  un- 
nerved, he  probably  ordered  a  retirement, 
for  the  trench  was  evacuated  immediately. 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  161 

The  observer  in  a  watching  aeroplane  then 
delivered  a  much-condensed  synopsis  of  the 
comedy  to  battalion  headquarters,  and  the 
trench  was  peacefully  occupied. 

Inevitably  the  nearness  of  the  enemy  to 
machines  hovering  over  a  given  area  bred 
in  the  airmen  concerned  a  desire  to  swoop 
down  and  panic  the  Boche.  Movement  in 
a  hostile  trench  was  irresistible,  and  many 
a  pilot  shot  off  his  engine,  glided  across 
the  lines,  and  let  his  observer  spray  with 
bullets  the  home  of  the  Hun.  The  intro- 
duction of  such  tactics  was  not  planned  be- 
forehand and  carried  out  to  order.  It  was 
the  outcome  of  a  new  set  of  circumstances 
and  almost  unconscious  enterprise.  More 
than  any  other  aspect  of  war  flying,  it  is,  I 
believe,  this  imminence  of  the  unusual  that 
makes  the  average  war  pilot  swear  greatly 
by  his  job,  while  other  soldiers  temper  their 
good  work  with  grousing.  His  actions  are 
influenced  by  the  knowledge  that  somewhere, 
behind  a  ridge  of  clouds,  in  the  nothingness 
of  space,  on  the  patchwork  ground,  the  True 
Romance  has  hidden  a  new  experience,  which 
can  only  be  found  by  the  venturer  with  alert 


\m     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

vision,  a  quick  brain,  and  a  fine  instinct  for 
opportunity. 

The  free-lance  ground  stunt,  then,  had  its 
origin  in  the  initiative  of  a  few  pilots  who 
recognised  a  chance,  took  it,  and  thus  opened 
yet  another  branch  in  the  huge  departmental 
store  of  aerial  tactics.  The  exploits  of  these 
pioneers  were  sealed  with  the  stamp  of  offi- 
cial approval,  and  airmen  on  contact  patrol 
have  since  been  encouraged  to  relieve 
boredom  by  joyous  pounces  on  Brother 
Boche. 

The  star  turn  last  year  was  performed  by 
a  British  machine  that  captured  a  trench. 
The  pilot  guided  it  above  the  said  trench 
for  some  hundred  yards,  while  the  observer 
emptied  drum  after  drum  of  ammunition  at 
the  crouching  Germans.  A  headlong  scram- 
ble was  followed  by  the  appearance  of  an 
irregular  line  of  white  billowings.  The  enemy 
were  waving  handkerchiefs  and  strips  of  ma- 
terial in  token  of  surrender!  Whereupon  our 
infantry  were  signalled  to  take  possession, 
which  they  did.  Don't  shrug  your  shoulders, 
friend  the  reader,  and  say:  "Quite  a  good 
story,  but  tall,  very  tall."     The  facts  were 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  163 

related  in  the  R.F.C.  section  of  ' Comic  Cuts,' 
otherwise  G.H.Q.  summary  of  work. 

Fighting  squadrons  soon  caught  the  craze 
for  ground  stunts  and  carried  it  well  beyond 
the  lines.  One  machine  chased  a  train  for 
miles  a  few  hundred  feet  above,  derailed  it, 
and  spat  bullets  at  the  lame  coaches  until 
driven  off  by  enemy  craft.  Another  made 
what  was  evidently  an  inspection  of  troops 
by  some  Boche  Olympian  look  like  the  riot- 
ous disorder  of  a  Futurist  painting.  A  pilot 
with  some  bombs  to  spare  spiralled  down  over 
a  train,  dropped  the  first  bomb  on  the  engine, 
and  the  second,  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  on  the 
soldiers  who  scurried  from  the  carriages. 
When  a  detachment  of  cavalry  really  did 
break  through  for  once  in  a  while,  it  was 
startled  to  find  an  aerial  vanguard.  A  frolic- 
some biplane  darted  ahead,  pointed  out  po- 
sitions worthy  of  attack,  and  created  a 
diversion  with  Lewis  gun  fire. 

At  the  end  of  a  three-hour  offensive  patrol 
my  pilot  would  often  descend  our  bus  to 
less  than  a  ^thousand  feet,  cross  No  Man's 
Land  again,  and  zigzag  over  the  enemy 
trenches,  where  we  disposed  of  surplus  am- 


164     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

munition  to  good  purpose.  On  cloudy  days, 
with  the  pretext  of  testing  a  new  machine 
or  a  gun,  he  would  fly  just  above  the  clouds, 
until  we  were  east  of  the  lines,  then  turn 
round  and  dive  suddenly  through  the  cloud  - 
screen  in  the  direction  of  the  Boche  positions, 
firing  his  front  gun  as  we  dropped.  The  turn 
of  my  rear  gun  came  afterwards  when  the 
pilot  flattened  out  and  steered  northward 
along  the  wrong  border  of  No  Man's  Land. 
Once,  when  flying  very  low,  we  looked  into  a 
wide  trench  and  saw  a  group  of  tiny  figures 
make  confused  attempts  to  take  cover,  tum- 
bling over  each  other  the  while  in  ludicrous 
confusion. 

I  remember  a  notable  first  trip  across  the 
lines  made  by  a  pilot  who  had  just  arrived 
from  England.  He  had  been  sent  up  to 
have  a  look  at  the  battle  line,  with  an  old- 
hand  observer  and  instructions  not  to  cross 
the  trenches.  However,  he  went  too  far 
east,  and  found  himself  ringed  by  Archie 
bursts.  These  did  not  have  their  customary 
effect  on  a  novice  of  inspiring  mortal  funk, 
for  the  new  pilot  became  furiously  angry 
and   flew   Berserk.     He   dived   towards   Ba- 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  165 

paume,  dropped  unscathed  through  the  bar- 
rage of  anti-aircraft  shelling  for  which  this 
stronghold  was  at  the  time  notorious,  fired  a 
hundred  rounds  into  the  town  square  from  a 
height  of  800  feet,  and  raced  back  over  the 
Bapaume-Pozieres  road  pursued  by  flaming 
"onion"  rockets.  The  observer  recovered 
from  his  surprise  in  time  to  loose  off  a  drum 
of  ammunition  at  Bapaume,  and  three  more 
along  the  straight  road  to  the  front  line,  pay- 
ing special  attention  to  the  village  of  Le 
Sars. 

It  was  above  this  village  that  I  once  was 
guilty  of  communicating  with  the  enemy. 
During  a  three-hours'  offensive  patrol  around 
the  triangle — Bapaume-Mossy-Face  Wood- 
Epehy — we  had  not  seen  a  single  Hun  ma- 
chine. Low  clouds  held  Archie  in  check,  and 
there  was  therefore  small  necessity  to  swerve 
from  a  straight  course.  Becoming  bored,  I 
looked  at  the  pleasant-seeming  countryside 
below,  and  reflected  how  ill  its  appearance 
harmonised  with  its  merits  as  a  dwelling- 
place,  judged  on  the  best  possible  evidence — 
the  half-hysterical  diaries  found  on  enemy 
prisoners,   the  bitter  outpourings  anent  the 


166     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

misery  of  intense  bombardment  and  slaughter, 
the  ominous  title  "The  Grave"  given  to  the 
region  by  Germans  who  had  fought  there. 
An  echo  of  light-hearted  incursions  into  Ger- 
man literature  when  I  was  a  student  at  a 
Boche  college  suggested  that  the  opening  lines 
of  Schiller's  "Sehnsucht"  were  peculiarly  ap- 
posite to  the  state  of  mind  of  the  Huns  who 
dwelt  by  the  Somme.  Wishing  to  share  my 
discovery,  I  wrote  the  verse  in  large  block 
capitals,  ready  to  be  dropped  at  a  convenient 
spot.  I  took  the  liberty  of  transposing  three 
pronouns  from  the  first  person  to  the  second, 
so  as  to  apostrophise  our  Boche  brethren. 
The  patrol  finished,  my  pilot  spiralled  down 
to  within  a  300-yard  range  of  the  ground  and 
flew  along  the  road  past  Martinpuich,  while 
I  pumped  lead  at  anything  that  might  be  a 
communication  trench.  We  sprinkled  Le  Sars 
with  bullets,  and  there  I  threw  overboard  the 
quotation  from  a  great  German  poet,  folded 
inside  an  empty  Very's  cartridge  to  which  I 
had  attached  canvas  streamers.  If  it  was 
picked  up,  I  trust  the  following  lines 
were  not  regarded  merely  as  wordy  fright- 
fulness: 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  167 

"Ach!  aus  dieses  Thales  Grunden 
Die  der  kalte  Nebel  driickt, 
Konnt'  ihr  doch  den  Ausgang  finden, 
Ach!  wie  flihlt'  ihr  euch  begllickt!" 

Of  all  the  tabloid  tales  published  last  year 
in  R.F.C.  'Comic  Cuts,'  the  most  comic  was 
that  of  a  mist,  a  British  bus,  and  a  Boche 
General.  The  mist  was  troublesome;  the  bus, 
homeward  bound  after  a  reconnaissance,  was 
flying  low  to  keep  a  clear  vision  of  the  earth; 
the  general  was  seated  in  his  dignified  car, 
after  the  manner  of  generals.  The  British 
oilot  dived  on  the  car,  the  British  observer 
tired  on  the  car,  the  Boche  chauffeur  stopped 
the  car,  the  Boche  general  jumped  from  the 
car.  Chauffeur  and  general  rushed  through  a 
field  into  a  wood;  pilot  and  observer  went 
home  and  laughed. 

Thus  far  the  facts  are  taken  from  the 
official  report.  An  appropriate  supplement 
was  the  rumour,  which  deserved  to  be  true 
but  possibly  wasn't,  that  the  observer  turned 
in  the  direction  of  the  vanished  general  and 
plagiarised  George  Robey  with  a  shout  into 
the  unhearing  air:  "Cheeriho  old  thing,  here's 
a  go,  my  hat,  priceless!" 


168     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

So  much  for  past  accomplishment.  The 
future  of  war  flying,  like  all  futures,  is  prob- 
lematical; but  having  regard  to  our  present 
unquestionable  superiority  in  the  air,  and  to 
the  blend  of  sane  imagination  and  practical 
ability  now  noticeable  as  an  asset  of  the 
flying  services  directorate,  one  can  hazard  the 
statement  that  in  the  extended  aerial  war 
which  is  coming  the  R.F.C.  and  R.N.A.S. 
will  nearly  satisfy  the  most  exacting  of 
critics. 

The  tendency  is  toward  a  rapid  develop- 
ment of  aircraft  even  more  startling  than 
that  of  the  past.  Some  of  the  modern  scout 
machines  have  a  level  speed  of  130-150  miles 
an  hour,  and  can  climb  more  than  1000  feet 
a  minute  until  an  abnormal  height  is  reached. 
It  is  certain  that  within  a  year  later  machines 
will  travel  160,  180,  and  200  miles  an  hour 
level.  Quantity  as  well  as  quality  is  on  the 
up-grade,  so  that  the  power  to  strike  hard 
and  far  will  increase  enormously,  helped  by 
heavier  armament,  highly  destructive  bombs, 
and  more  accurate  bomb-sights. 

And,  above  all,  we  shall  see  a  great  ex- 
tension  of   ground   attacks   by   air   cavalry. 


ENDS  AND  ODDS  169 

The  production  of  a  machine  specially  adapted 
for  this  purpose,  armoured  underneath,  per- 
haps, and  carrying  guns  that  fire  downward 
through  the  fuselage,  is  worth  the  careful  at- 
tention of  aeroplane  designers.  It  is  probable 
that  with  the  reappearance  of  extended  mili- 
tary movement  on  the  western  front,  as  must 
happen  sooner  or  later,  continuous  guerilla 
tactics  by  hundreds  of  low-flying  aeroplanes 
may  well  turn  an  orderly  retirement  into  a 
disorderly  rout. 

When  and  if  a  push  of  pushes  really  breaks 
the  German  line,  I  fully  expect  that  we  of 
the  air  service  will  lead  the  armies  of  pursuit 
and  make  ourselves  a  pluperfect  nuisance  to 
the  armies  of  retreat.  Temporary  second  lieu- 
tenants may  yet  be  given  the  chance  to  drive 
a  Boche  general  or  two  into  the  woods,  or 
even — who  can  limit  the  freaks  of  Providence? 
— plug  down  shots  at  the  Limelight  Kaiser 
himself,  as  he  tours  behind  the  front  in  his 
favourite  role  of  Bombastes  Furioso. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   DAILY   ROUND. 

During  a  bout  of  active  service  one  happens 
upon  experiences  that,  though  they  make  no 
immediate  impression,  become  more  promi- 
nent than  the  most  dramatic  events,  when 
the  period  is  past  and  can  be  viewed  in 
retrospect.  Sub-consciousness,  wiser  than  the 
surface  brain,  penetrates  to  the  inner  sanc- 
tuary of  true  values,  photographs  something 
typical  of  war's  many  aspects,  places  the 
negative  in  the  dark  room  of  memory,  and 
fades  into  inertia  until  again  called  upon  to 
act  as  arbiter  of  significance  for  everyday 
instinct.  Not  till  long  later,  when  released 
from  the  tension  of  danger  and  abnormal 
endeavour,  is  one's  mind  free  to  develop  the 
negative  and  produce  a  clear  photograph. 
The  sensitive  freshness  of  the  print  then  ob- 
tained is  likely  to  last  a  lifetime.  I  leave 
a  detailed  explanation  of  this  process  to  the 
comic  people  who  claim  acquaintance  with 
the  psychology  of  the  immortal  soul;  for  my 

170 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  171 

part,  I  am  content  to  remain  a  collector  of 
such  mental  photographs. 

A  few  examples  of  the  sub-conscious  im- 
pressions gathered  during  my  last  year's  term 
at  the  Front  are  the  curious  smile  of  a  dead 
observer  as  we  lifted  his  body  from  a  bullet- 
plugged  machine;  the  shrieking  of  the  wires 
whenever  we  dived  on  Hun  aircraft;  a  tree 
trunk  falling  on  a  howitzer;  a  line  of  narrow- 
nosed  buses,  with  heavy  bombs  fitted  under 
the  lower  planes,  ready  to  leave  for  their 
objective;  the  ghostliness  of  Ypres  as  we 
hovered  seven  thousand  feet  above  its  ruins; 
a  certain  riotous  evening  when  eight  of  the 
party  of  fourteen  ate  their  last  dinner  on 
earth;  a  severe  reprimand  delivered  to  me 
by  a  meticulous  colonel,  after  I  returned 
from  a  long  reconnaissance  that  included  four 
air  flights,  for  the  crime  of  not  having  fas- 
tened my  collar  before  arrival  on  the  aero- 
drome at  5  a.m.;  a  broken  Boche  aeroplane 
falling  in  two  segments  at  a  height  of  ten 
thousand  feet;  the  breathless  moments  at  a 
Base  hospital  when  the  surgeon-in-charge  ex- 
amined new  casualties  to  decide  which  of 
them  were  to  be  sent  across  the  Channel; 


172     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

and  clearest  of  all,  the  brown-faced  infantry 
marching  back  to  the  trenches  from  our  village. 
A  muddy,  unkempt  battalion  would  arrive 
in  search  of  rest  and  recuperation.  It  dis- 
tributed itself  among  houses,  cottages,  and 
barns,  while  the  Frenchwomen  looked  sweet 
or  sour  according  to  their  diverse  tempers, 
and  whether  they  kept  estaminets,  sold  farm 
produce,  had  husbands  labas,  or  merely  feared 
for  their  poultry  and  the  cleanliness  of  their 
homes.  Next  day  the  exhausted  men  would 
reappear  as  beaux  sabreurs  with  bright  but- 
tons, clean  if  discoloured  tunics,  and  a  jaunty, 
untired  walk.  The  drum  and  fife  band  prac- 
tised in  the  tiny  square  before  an  enthusias- 
tic audience  of  gamins.  Late  every  afternoon 
the  aerodrome  was  certain  to  be  crowded  by 
inquisitive  Tommies,  whose  peculiar  joy  it 
was  to  watch  a  homing  party  land  and  ex- 
amine the  machines  for  bullet  marks.  The 
officers  made  overtures  on  the  subject  of  joy- 
rides,  or  discussed  transfers  to  the  Flying 
Corps.  Interchange  of  mess  courtesies  took 
place,  attended  by  a  brisk  business  in  yarns 
and  a  mutual  appreciation  of  the  work  done 
by  R.F.C.  and  infantry. 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  173 

Then,  one  fine  day,  the  drum  and  fife 
rhythm  of  "A  Long,  Long  Trail"  would 
draw  us  to  the  roadside,  while  our  friends 
marched  away  to  Mouquet  Farm,  or  Beau- 
mont Hamel,  or  Hohenzollern  Redoubt,  or 
some  other  point  of  the  changing  front  that 
the  Hun  was  about  to  lose.  And  as  they  left, 
the  men  were  mostly  silent;  though  they 
looked  debonair  enough  with  their  swinging 
quickstep  and  easy  carriage,  and  their  frying- 
pan  hats  set  at  all  sorts  of  rakish  angles. 
Their  officers  would  nod,  glance  enviously  at 
the  apple-trees  and  tents  in  our  pleasant 
little  orchard,  and  pass  on  to  the  front  of 
the  Front,  and  all  that  this  implied  in  the 
way  of  mud,  vermin,  sudden  death,  sus- 
pense, and  damnable  discomfort.  And  re- 
turning to  the  orchard  we  offered  selfish 
thanks  to  Providence  in  that  we  were  not  as 
the  millions  who  hold  and  take  trenches. 

The  flying  officer  in  France  has,  indeed, 
matter  for  self-congratulation  when  com- 
pared with  the  infantry  officer,  as  any  one 
who  has  served  in  both  capacities  will  bear 
witness.  Flying  over  enemy  country  is  ad- 
mittedly a  strain,  but  each  separate  job  only 


174     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

lasts  from  two  to  four  hours.  The  infantry- 
man in  the  front  line  is  trailed  by  risk  for 
the  greater  part  of  twenty-four  hours  daily. 
His  work  done,  the  airman  returns  to  fixed 
quarters,  good  messing,  a  bath,  plenty  of 
leisure,  and  a  real  bed.  The  infantry  officer 
lives  mostly  on  army  rations,  and  as  often 
as  not  he  sleeps  in  his  muddy  clothes,  amid 
the  noise  of  war,  after  a  long  shift  crammed 
with  uncongenial  duties.  As  regards  actual 
fighting  the  airman  again  has  the  advantage. 
For  those  with  a  suitable  temperament  there 
is  tense  joy  in  an  air  scrap;  there  is  none  in 
trudging  along  a  mile  of  narrow  communica- 
tion trench,  and  then,  arrived  at  one's  un- 
lovely destination,  being  perpetually  ennuied 
by  crumps  and  other  devilries.  And  in  the 
game  of  poker  played  with  life,  death,  and 
the  will  to  destroy,  the  airman  has  but  to 
reckon  with  two  marked  cards — the  Ace  of 
Clubs,  representing  Boche  aircraft,  and  the 
Knave  Archibald;  whereas,  when  the  infan- 
tryman stakes  his  existence,  he  must  remem- 
ber that  each  sleeve  of  the  old  cheat  Death 
contains  half  a  dozen  cards. 

All  this  by  way  of  prelude  to  a  protest 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  175- 

against  the  exaggerative  ecstasies  indulged  in 
by  many  civilians  when  discussing  the  air 
services.  The  British  pilots  are  competent 
and  daring,  but  they  would  be  the  last  to 
claim  an  undue  share  of  war's  glory.  Many 
of  them  deserve  the  highest  praise;  but  then 
so  do  many  in  all  other  fighting  branches  of 
Army  and  Navy.  An  example  of  what  I 
mean  is  the  reference  to  R.F.C.  officers,  dur- 
ing a  Parliamentary  debate,  as  "the  super- 
heroes  of  the  war," — a  term  which,  for 
ungainly  absurdity,  would  be  hard  to  beat. 
To  those  who  perpetrate  such  far-fetched 
phrases  I  would  humbly  say:  "Good  gentle- 
men, we  are  proud  to  have  won  your  ap- 
proval, but  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  make 
us  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  other  sol- 
diers." 

Yet  another  asset  of  the  airman  is  that 
his  work  provides  plenty  of  scope  for  the 
individual,  who  in  most  sections  of  the  Army 
is  held  on  the  leash  of  system  and  co-opera- 
tion. The  war  pilot,  though  subject  to  the 
exigencies  of  formation  flying,  can  attack  and 
manoeuvre  as  he  pleases.  Most  of  the  star 
performers    are    individualists    who    concen- 


176  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS; 

trate  on  whatever  methods  of  destroying  an 
enemy  best  suit  them. 

Albert  Ball,  probably  the  most  brilliant  air 
fighter  of  the  war,  was  the  individualist  in 
excelsis.  His  deeds  were  the  outcome  partly 
of  pluck — certainly  not  of  luck — but  mostly 
of  thought,  insight,  experiment,  and  constant 
practice.  His  knowledge  of  how  to  use  sun, 
wind,  and  clouds,  coupled  with  an  instinct 
for  the  "blind  side"  of  whatever  Hun  ma* 
chine  he  had  in  view,  made  him  a  master  in 
the  art  of  approaching  unobserved.  Arrived 
at  close  quarters,  he  usually  took  up  his 
favourite  position  under  the  German's  tail 
before  opening  fire.  His  experience  then 
taught  him  to  anticipate  any  move  that  an 
unprepared  enemy  might  make,  and  his 
quick  wits  how  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
Last  autumn,  whenever  the  weather  kept 
scout  machines  from  their  patrols  but  was 
not  too  bad  for  joy-flying,  he  would  fly  near 
the  aerodrome  and  practise  his  pet  manoeu- 
vres for  hours  at  a  time.  In  the  early  days  of 
Ball's  dazzling  exploits  his  patrol  leader  once 
complained,  after  an  uneventful  trip,  that  he 
Wt  the  formation  immediately  it  crossed  the 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  177 

lines,  and  stayed  away  until  the  return  jour- 
ney. Ball's  explanation  was  that  throughout 
the  show  he  remained  less  than  two  hundred 
feet  below  the  leader's  machine,  "practising 
concealment." 

The  outstanding  pilots  of  my  old  squadron 
were  all  individualists  in  attack,  and  it  was 
one  of  my  hobbies  to  contrast  their  tactics. 
C,  with  his  blind  fatalism  and  utter  disre- 
gard of  risk,  would  dive  a  machine  among 
any  number  of  Huns,  so  that  he  usually 
opened  a  fight  with  an  advantage  of  startling 
audacity.  S.,  another  very  successful  leader, 
worked  more  in  co-operation  with  the  ma- 
chines behind  him,  and  took  care  to  give  his 
cbserver  every  chance  for  effective  fire.  His 
close  watch  on  the  remainder  of  the  forma- 
tion saved  many  a  machine  in  difficulties 
from  disaster.  V.,  my  pilot  and  flight-com- 
mander, was  given  to  a  quick  dive  at  the 
enemy,  a  swerve  aside,  a  recul  pour  mieux 
sauter,  a  vertical  turn  or  two,  and  another 
dash  to  close  grips  from  an  unexpected  di- 
rection, while  I  guarded  the  tail-end. 

But  writing  reminiscences  of  Umpty  Squad- 
ron's early  days  is  a  melancholy  business. 


178     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

When  it  was  first  formed  all  the  pilots  were 
picked  men,  for  the  machines  were  the  best 
British  two-seaters  then  in  existence,  and 
their  work  throughout  the  autumn  push  was 
to  be  more  dangerous  than  that  of  any 
squadron  along  the  British  front.  The  price 
we  paid  was  that  nine  weeks  from  our  arrival 
on  the  Somme  only  nine  of  the  original  thirty- 
six  pilots  and  observers  remained.  Twelve 
officers  flew  to  France  with  the  flight  to  which 
I  belonged.  Six  weeks  after  their  first  job 
over  the  lines  I  was  one  of  the  only  two 
survivors.  Three  of  the  twenty-five  who 
dropped  out  returned  to  England  with  wounds 
or  other  disabilities;  the  rest,  closely  followed 
by  twenty  of  those  who  replaced  them,  went 
to  Valhalla,  which  is  half-way  to  heaven;  or 
to  Karlsruhe,  which  is  between  hell  and  Frei- 
burg-im-Brisgau. 

And  the  reward?  One  day,  in  a  letter 
written  by  a  captured  Boche  airman,  was 
found  the  sentence:  "The  most-to-be-feared 

of  British  machines  is  the  S .*'    The  ump- 

tieth  squadron  then  had  the  only  machines 
of  this  type  in  France. 

During  the  short  period  of  their  stay  with 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  179 

us,  the  crowd  of  boys  thus  rudely  snatched 
away  were  the  gayest  company  imaginable; 
and,  indeed,  they  were  boys  in  everything 
but  achievement.  As  a  patriarch  of  twenty- 
four  I  had  two  more  years  to  my  discredit 
than  the  next  oldest  among  the  twelve  mem- 
bers of  our  flight-mess.  The  youngest  was 
seventeen  and  a  half.  Our  Squadron  Com- 
mander, one  of  the  finest  men  I  have  met  in 
or  out  of  the  army,  became  a  lieutenant- 
colonel  at  twenty-five.  Even  he  was  not 
spared,  being  killed  in  a  flying  accident  some 
months  later. 

Though  we  were  all  such  good  friends,  the 
high  percentage  of  machines  "missing"  from 
our  hangars  made  us  take  the  abnormal 
casualties  almost  as  a  matter  of  course  at 
the  time.  One  said  a  few  words  in  praise  of 
the  latest  to  go,  and  passed  on  to  the  next 
job.  Not  till  the  survivors  returned  home 
did  they  have  time,  away  from  the  stress  of 
war,  to  feel  keen  sorrow  for  the  brave  and 
jolly  company.  For  some  strange  reason,  my 
own  hurt  at  the  loss  was  toned  down  by  a 
mental  farewell  to  each  of  the  fallen,  in 
words  borrowed  from  the  song  sung  by  an 


180     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

old-time  maker  of  ballads  when  youth  left 
him:  "Adieu,  la  tres  gente  compagne." 

The  crowded  months  of  the  umptieth 
squadron  from  June  to  November  were 
worth  while  for  the  pilots  who  survived. 
The  only  two  of  our  then  flight-commanders 
still  on  the  active  list  are  now  commanding 
squadrons,  while  all  the  subaltern  pilots  have 
become  flight-commanders.  The  observers, 
members  of  a  tribe  akin  to  Kipl  ng's  Sergeant 
Whatsisname,  are  as  they  were  in  the  matter 
of  rank,  needless  to  say. 

For  my  part,  on  reaching  Blighty  by  the 
grace  of  God  and  an  injured  knee,  I  decided 
that  if  my  unworthy  neck  were  doomed  to 
be  broken,  I  would  rather  break  it  myself 
than  let  some  one  else  have  the  responsibility. 
It  is  as  a  pilot,  therefore,  that  I  am  about  to 
serve  another  sentence  overseas.  A  renewal 
of  Archie's  acquaintance  is  hardly  an  invit- 
ing prospect,  but  with  a  vivid  recollection  of 
great  days  with  the  old  umptieth  squadron,  I 
shall  not  be  altogether  sorry  to  leave  the 
hierarchy  of  home  instructordom  for  the  good- 
fellowship  of  active  service.  In  a  few  months' 
time,  after  a  further  period  of  aerial  outings, 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  181 

I  hope  to  fill  some  more  pages  of  Blackwood,1 
subject  always  to  the  sanction  of  their  editor, 
the  bon  Dieu,  and  the  mauvais  diable  who 
will  act  as  censor.  Meanwhile,  I  will  try  to 
sketch  the  daily  round  of  the  squadron  in 
which  I  am  proud  to  have  been  an  observer. 


"  Quarter  to  five,  sir,  and  a  fine  morning. 
You're  wanted  on  the  aerodrome  at  a  quar- 
ter past." 

I  sit  up.  A  shiver,  and  a  return  beneath 
the  blankets  for  five  minutes'  rumination. 
Dressing  will  be  dashed  unpleasant  in  the 
cold  of  dawn.  The  canvas  is  wet  with  the 
night's  rain.  The  reconnaissance  is  a  long 
one,  and  will  take  fully  three  hours.  The 
air  at  10,000  feet  will  bite  hard.  Must  send 
a  field  post-card  before  we  start.  Not  too 
much  time,  so  out  and  on  with  your  clothes. 
Life  is  wrotten. 

While  dressing  we  analyse  the  weather, 
that  pivot  of  our  day-to-day  existence.  On 
the  weather  depends  our  work  and  leisure, 
our  comparative  risks  and  comparative  safety. 

1  This  narrative  first  appeared  in  'Blackwood's  Magazine.' 


182  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

Last  thing  at  night,  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  throughout  the  day  we  search  the 
sky  for  a  sign.  And  I  cannot  deny  that  on 
occasions  a  sea  of  low  clouds,  making  impos- 
sible the  next  job,  is  a  pleasant  sight. 

The  pale  rose  of  sunrise  is  smudging  over 
the  last  Bickerings  of  the  grey  night.  Only  a 
few  wisps  of  cloud  are  about,  and  they  are 
too  high  to  bother  us.  The  wind  is  slight 
and  from  the  east,  for  which  many  thanks,  as 
it  will  make  easier  the  return  half  of  the  circuit. 

We  wrap  ourselves  in  flying  kit  and  cross 
the  road  to  the  aerodrome.  There  the  band 
of  leather-coated  officers  shiver  while  dis- 
cussing their  respective  places  in  the  forma- 
tion. A  bus  lands  and  taxies  to  a  shed. 
From  it  descends  the  Squadron  Commander, 
who,  with  gum-boots  and  a  warm  coat  over 
his  pyjamas,  has  been  "trying  the  air."  "Get 
into  your  machines,"  he  calls.  As  we  obey 
he  enters  his  hut-office  and  phones  the  wing 
headquarters. 

The  major  reappears,  and  the  command 
"Start  up!"  is  passed  along  the  line  of  ma- 
chines. Ten  minutes  later  we  head  for  the 
trenches,  climbing  as  we  travel. 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  183 

It  was  cold  on  the  ground.  It  was  bitter 
at  5000  feet.  It  is  damnable  at  10,000  feet. 
I  lean  over  the  side  to  look  at  Arras,  but 
draw  back  quickly  as  the  frozen  hand  of  the 
atmosphere  slaps  my  face.  My  gloved  hands 
grow  numb,  then  ache  profoundly  when  the 
warm  blood  brings  back  their  power  to  feel. 
I  test  my  gun,  and  the  trigger-pressure  is 
painful.  Life  is  worse  than  rotten,  it  is 
beastly. 

But  the  cold  soon  does  its  worst,  and  a 
healthy  circulation  expels  the  numbness  from 
my  fingers.  Besides,  once  we  are  beyond  the 
lines,  the  work  on  hand  allows  small  oppor- 
tunity to  waste  time  on  physical  sensations. 
On  this  trip  there  is  little  interruption,  thank 
goodness.  Archie  falls  short  of  his  average 
shooting,  and  we  are  able  to  outpace  a  group 
of  some  twelve  Hun  two-seaters  that  try  to 
intercept  us.  The  movement  below  is  noted, 
the  round  is  completed  according  to  pro- 
gramme, and  we  turn  westward  and  home- 
ward. 

Have  you  ever  sucked  bull's-eyes,  respected 
sir  or  madame?  If  not,  take  it  from  me  that 
the  best  time  to  trv  them  is  towards  the  end 


184     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

of  a  three-hour  flight  over  enemy  country. 
Five  bull's-eyes  are  then  far  more  enjoyable 
than  a  five-course  meal  at  the  Grand  Baby- 
lon Hotel.  One  of  these  striped  vulgarities 
both  soothes  and  warms  me  as  we  re-cross 
the  trenches. 

Down  go  the  noses  of  our  craft,  and  we 
lose  height  as  the  leader,  with  an  uneven, 
tree-bordered  road  as  guide,  makes  for  Dou- 
lens.  From  this  town  our  aerodrome  shows 
up  plainly  towards  the  south-west.  Soon 
we  shall  be  in  the  mess  marquee,  behind  us 
a  completed  job,  before  us  a  hot  breakfast. 
Life  is  good. 

Arrived  on  land  we  are  met  by  mechanics, 
each  of  whom  asks  anxiously  if  his  particular 
bus  or  engine  has  behaved  well.  The  ob- 
servers write  their  reports,  which  I  take  to 
the  Brass  Hats  at  headquarters.  This  done, 
I  enter  the  orchard,  splash  about  in  a  canvas 
bath,  and  so  to  a  contented  breakfast. 

Next  you  will  find  most  of  the  squadron 
officers  at  the  aerodrome,  seated  in  deck- 
chairs  and  warmed  by  an  early  autumn  sun. 
It  is  the  most  important  moment  of  the  day 
— the  post  has  just  arrived.     All  letters  ex- 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  185 

cept  the  one  from  His  Majesty's  impatient 
Surveyor  of  Taxes,  who  threatens  to  take 
proceedings  "in  the  district  in  which  you 
reside,"  are  read  and  re-read,  from  "My 
dearest  Bill"  to  "Yours  as  ever."  Every 
scrap  of  news  from  home  has  tremendous 
value.  Winkle,  the  dinky  Persian  with  a 
penchant  for  night  life,  has  presented  the 
family  with  five  kittens.  Splendid!  Lady 
X.,  who  is,  you  know,  the  bosom  friend  of  a 
certain  Minister's  wife,  says  the  war  will  be 
over  by  next  summer  at  the  latest.  Splendid 
again !  Life  is  better  than  good,  it  is  amusing. 
Yesterday's  London  papers  have  been  de- 
livered with  the  letters.  These  also  are  de- 
voured, from  light  leaders  on  electoral  reform 
to  the  serious  legends  underneath  photo- 
graphs of  the  Lady  Helen  Toutechose,  Mrs. 
Alexander  Innit,  and  Miss  Margot  Rheingold 
as  part-time  nurses,  canteeners,  munitioners, 
flag-sellers,  charity  matinee  programme  sellers, 
tableaux  vivants,  and  patronesses  of  the  un- 
dying arts.  Before  turning  to  the  latest 
number  of  the  'Aeroplane,'  our  own  par- 
ticular weekly,  one  wonders  idly  how  the 
Lady  Helen  Toutechose  and  her  emulators, 


186     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

amid  their  strenuous  quick-change  war-work, 
find  time  to  be  photographed  so  constantly, 
assiduously,  and  distractingly. 

We  pocket  our  correspondence  and  tackle 
the  morning's  work.  Each  pilot  makes  sure 
that  his  machine  is  overhauled,  and  if  neces- 
sary, he  runs  the  engine  or  puts  a  re-rigged 
bus  through  its  paces.  I  am  told  off  to 
instruct  half  a  dozen  officers  newly  arrived 
from  the  trenches  on  how  to  become  a  re- 
liable reconnaissance  observer  in  one  week. 
Several  of  us  perform  mysteriously  in  the 
workshops,  for  we  are  a  squadron  of  many 
inventors. 

Every  other  officer  has  a  pet  mechanical 
originality.  Marmaduke  is  preparing  a  small 
gravity  tank  for  his  machine,  to  be  used 
when  the  pressure  tank  is  ventilated  by  a 
bullet.  The  Tripehound  has  a  scheme  where- 
by all  the  control  wires  can  be  duplicated. 
Some  one  else  has  produced  the  latest  thing 
in  connections  between  the  pilot's  joystick 
and  the  Vickers  gun.  I  am  making  a  spade- 
grip  trigger  for  the  Lewis  gun,  so  that  the 
observer  can  always  have  one  hand  free  to 
manipulate  the   movable  backsight.     When 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  187 

one  of  these  deathless  inventions  is  com- 
pleted the  real  hard  work  begins.  The  new 
gadget  is  adopted  unanimously  by  the  in- 
ventor himself,  but  he  has  a  tremendous  task 
in  making  the  rest  of  the  squadron  see  its 
merits. 

After  lunch  we  scribble  letters,  for  the 
post  leaves  at  five.  As  we  write  the  peace- 
ful afternoon  is  disturbed  by  the  roar  of  five 
engines.  B  Flight  is  starting  up  in  readi- 
ness for  an  offensive  patrol.  Ten  minutes 
later  more  engines  break  into  song,  as  three 
machines  of  C  Flight  leave  to  photograph 
some  new  lines  of  defence  before  Bapaume. 
The  overhead  hum  dies  away,  and  I  allow 
myself  a  sleep  in  payment  of  the  early  morn- 
ing reconnaissance. 

Wearing  a  dress  suit  I  am  seated  on  the 
steps  of  a  church.  On  my  knee  is  a  Lewis 
gun.  An  old  gentleman,  very  respectable  in 
dark  spats,  a  black  tie,  and  shiny  top-hat, 
looks  down  at  me  reproachfully. 

"Very  sad,"  he  murmurs. 

"Don't  you  think  this  trigger's  a  damned 
good  idea?"  I  ask. 

"young  man,  this  is  an  outrage.     As  you 


188     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

are  not  ashamed  enough  to  leave  the  church- 
yard of  your  own  accord,  I  shall  have  you 
turned  out." 

I  laugh  and  proceed  to  pass  some  wire 
through  the  pistol-grip.  The  old  man  dis- 
appears, but  he  returns  with  three  grave- 
diggers,  who  brandish  their  spades  in  terrify- 
ing manner.  "Ha!"  I  think,  "I  must  fly 
away."  I  fly  my  wings  (did  I  tell  you  I  had 
wings?)  and  rise  above  the  church  tower. 
Archie  has  evidently  opened  fire,  for  I  hear 
a  near-by  wouff.  I  try  to  dodge,  but  it  is 
too  late.  A  shell  fragment  strikes  my  nose. 
Much  to  my  surprise  I  find  I  can  open  my 
eyes.  My  nose  is  sore,  one  side  of  the  tent 
waves  gently,  and  a  small  apple  reposes  on 
my  chest. 

Having  run  into  the  open  I  discover  that 
the  disengaged  members  of  C  Flight  are 
raiding  our  corner  with  the  sour  little  apples 
of  the  orchard.  We  collect  ammunition  from 
a  tree  and  drive  off  the  attackers.  A  diver- 
sion is  created  by  the  return  of  the  three 
photography  machines.  We  troop  across  to 
meet  them. 

The    next   scene   is   the    aerodrome    once 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  189 

again.  We  sit  in  a  group  and  censor  letters. 
The  countryside  is  quiet,  the  sun  radiates 
cheerfulness,  and  the  war  seems  very  re- 
mote. But  the  mechanics  of  B  Flight  stand 
outside  their  sheds  and  look  east.  It  is  time 
the  offensive  patrol  party  were  back. 

"There  they  are,"  says  a  watcher.  Three 
far-away  specks  grow  larger  and  larger.  As 
they  draw  near,  we  are  able  to  recognise 
them  as  our  buses,  by  the  position  of  their 
struts  and  the  distinctive  drone  of  their  en- 
gines. 

Four  machines  crossed  the  lines  on  the 
expedition;  where  is  the  fourth?  The  crew 
of  the  other  three  do  not  know.  They  last 
saw  the  missing  craft  ten  miles  behind  the 
Boche  trenches,  where  it  turned  west  after 
sending  up  a  Very's  light  to  signal  the  neces- 
sity of  an  immediate  return.  There  were  no 
Huns  in  sight,  so  the  cause  must  have  been 
engine  trouble. 

The  shadows  of  the  lost  pilot  and  observer 
darken  the  first  ten  minutes  at  the  dinner- 
table.  However,  since  cheerfulness  is  beyond 
godliness,  we  will  take  this  to  be  an  anxious 
occasion   with   a  happy   ending.     Comes   a 


190  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

welcome  message  from  the  orderly  officer, 
saying  that  the  pilot  has  phoned.  His  rea- 
son for  leaving  the  patrol  was  that  his  engine 
went  dud.  Later  it  petered  out  altogether, 
so  that  he  was  forced  to  glide  down  and 
land  near  a  battery  of  our  howitzers. 

The  conversational  atmosphere  now  lightens. 
Some  people  from  another  squadron  are  our 
guests,  and  with  them  we  exchange  the  latest 
flying  gossip.  The  other  day,  X  rammed 
a  machine  after  his  gun  had  jambed.  Y  has 
been  given  the  Military  Cross.  Archie  has 
sent  west  two  machines  of  the  eleventeenth 
squadron.  While  on  his  way  home,  with  no 
more  ammunition,  Z  was  attacked  by  a  fast 
scout.  He  grabbed  a  Very's  pistol  and  fired 
at  the  Boche  a  succession  of  lights,  red, 
white,  and  green.  The  Boche,  taking  the 
rockets  for  a  signal  from  a  decoy  machine, 
or  from  some  new  form  of  British  frightful- 
ness,  promptly  retired. 

Dinner  over,  the  usual  crowd  settle  around 
the  card-table,  and  the  gramophone  churns 
out  the  same  old  tunes.  There  is  some  dis- 
sension between  a  man  who  likes  music  and 
another  who  prefers  rag-time.     Number  one 


THE  DAILY  ROUND  191 

leads  off  with  the  Peer  Gynt  Suite,  and  num- 
ber two  counters  with  the  record  that  cho- 
ruses: " Hello,  how  are  you?"  From  the 
babel  of  yarning  emerges  the  voice  of  our 
licensed  liar — 

"So  I  told  the  General  he  was  the  sort  of 
bloke  who  ate  tripe  and  gargled  with  his 
beer." 

"Flush,"  calls  a  poker  player. 

"Give  us  a  kiss,  give  us  a  kiss,  by  wireless," 
pleads  the  gramophone. 

"Good-night,  chaps.  See  you  over  Cam- 
brai."    This  from  a  departing  guest. 

Chorus — "Good-night,  old  bean." 

A  somewhat  wild  evening  ends  with  a  sing- 
song, of  which  the  star  number  is  a  ballad  to 
the  tune  of  "Tarpaulin  Jacket,"  handed  down 
from  the  pre-war  days  of  the  Flying  Corps, 
and  beginning — 

"The  young  aviator  was  dying, 
And  as  'neath  the  wreckage  he  lay  (he  lay), 
To  the  A.M.'s  assembled  around  him 
These  last  parting  words  he  did  say: 
'Take  the  cylinders  out  of  my  kidneys, 
The  connecting-rod  out  of  my  brain  (my  brain), 
From  the  small  of  my  back  take  the  crank-shaft. 
And  assemble  the  engine  again.'  " 


192     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

On  turning  in  we  give  the  sky  a  final 
scour.  It  is  non-committal  on  the  subject  of 
to-morrow's  weather.  The  night  is  dark, 
the  moon  is  at  her  last  quarter,  only  a  few 
stars  glimmer. 

I  feel  sure  the  land  needs  rain.  If  it  be 
fine  to-morrow  we  shall  sit  over  Archie  for 
three  hours.  If  it  be  (conveniently  wet  we 
shall  charter  a  light  tender  and  pay  a  long- 
deferred  visit  to  the  city  of  Arriere.  There  I 
shall  visit  a  real  barber;  pass  the  time  of  day 
with  my  friend  Henriette,  whose  black  eyes 
and  ready  tongue  grace  a  book  shop  of  the 
Rue  des  Trois  Cailloux;  dine  greatly  at  a  little 
restaurant  in  the  Rue  du  Corps  Nu  Sans 
Tete;  and  return  with  reinforcements  of  Ana- 
tole  France,  collar-studs,  and  French  slang. 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT  IS  DUE 

TO  THE 

OWNER  OF  THESE  LETTERS,  WHO  HAS  ALLOWED 

ME  TO  REVISE  FOR  PUBLICATION  WHAT 

WAS  WRITTEN  FOR  HER  ALONE 


I. 

LOOKING   FOR   TROUBLE. 

You  have  asked  me,  mon  amie,  to 

tell  you  from  personal  experience,  all  about 
aeroplanes  on  active  service.  With  the  best 
will  in  the  world  I  can  do  no  such  thing,  any 
more  than  a  medical  student  could  tell  you, 
from  personal  experience,  all  about  midwifery. 
The  Flying  Corps  has  in  France  hundreds 
of  aeroplanes,  scores  of  squadrons,  and  a 
dozen  varying  duties.  Earlier  in  the  war, 
when  army  aircraft  were  few  and  their  func- 
tion belonged  to  the  pioneer  stage,  every 
pilot  and  observer  dabbled  in  many  things — 
reconnaissance,  artillery  observation,  bomb 
raids,  photography,  and  fighting.  But  the 
service  has  since  expanded  so  much,  both  in 
size  and  importance,  that  each  squadron  is 
made  to  specialise  in  one  or  two  branches  of 
work,  while  other  specialists  look  after  the 
remainder.  The  daily  round  of  an  artillery 
squadron,  for  example,  is  very  different  from 
the  daily  round  of  a  reconnaissance  squad- 

195 


196  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

ron,  which  is  quite  as  different  from  that  of 
a  scout  squadron.  Alors,  my  experience  only 
covers  the  duties  of  my  own  squadron.  These 
I  will  do  my  best  to  picture  for  you,  but 
please  don't  look  upon  my  letters  as  dealing 
with  the  Flying  Corps  as  a  whole. 

Perhaps  you  will  see  better  what  I  mean 
if  you  know  something  of  our  organisation 
and  of  the  different  kinds  of  machines. 
There  are  slow,  stable  two-seaters  that  ob- 
serve around  the  lines;  fighting  two-seaters 
that  operate  over  an  area  extending  some 
thirty  miles  beyond  the  lines;  faster  fighting 
two-seaters  that  spy  upon  enemy  country 
still  farther  afield;  the  bombing  craft,  single- 
seaters  or  two-seaters  used  as  single-seaters; 
photography  machines;  and  single-seater 
scouts,  quick-climbing  and  quick-manoeu- 
vring, that  protect  and  escort  the  observation 
buses  and  pounce  on  enemy  aeroplanes  at 
sight.  All  these  confine  themselves  to  their 
specialised  jobs,  though  their  outgoings  are 
planned  to  fit  the  general  scheme  of  aerial 
tactics.  The  one  diversion  shared  by  every 
type  is  scrapping  the  air  Hun  whenever  pos- 
sible— and    the    ground    Hun    too   for   that 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  197 

matter,  if  he   appear  in   the   open  and  one 
can  dive  at  him. 

Our  organisation  is  much  the  same  as 
the  organisation  of  the  older — and  junior 
— arms  of  the  Service  (oh  yes!  the  Gazette 
gives  us  precedence  over  the  Guards,  the 
Household  Cavalry,  and  suchlike  people). 
Three  or  more  squadrons  are  directed  by  a 
wing-commander,  whom  one  treats  with  deep 
respect  as  he  speeds  a  formation  from  the 
aerodrome;  a  number  of  wings,  with  an  air- 
craft depot,  are  directed  by  a  brigadier,  whom 
one  treats  with  still  deeper  respect  when  he 
pays  a  visit  of  inspection;  the  whole  is 
directed  by  the  General-Officer-Commanding- 
the-Flying-Corps-in-the-Field,  one-of-the-best, 
who  treats  us  like  brothers. 

We,  in  umpty  squadron,  are  of  the  G.H.Q. 
v/ing,  our  work  being  long  reconnaissance  and 
offensive  patrols  over  that  part  of  the  Somme 
basin  where  bands  of  Hun  aircraft  rove  thick- 
est. Our  home  is  a  wide  aerodrome,  flanked  by 
a  village  that  comprises  about  thirty  decrepit 
cottages  and  a  beautiful  little  old  church 
Our  tents  are  pitched  in  a  pleasant  orchard, 
which  is  strewn  with  sour  apples  and  field 


198  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

kitchens.  For  the  rest,  we  are  a  happy  fam- 
ily, and  the  sole  blot  on  our  arcadian  ex- 
istence is  the  daily  journey  east  to  meet 
Brother  Boche  and  his  hired  bully  Archibald. 

After  which  explanatory  stuff  I  will  pro- 
ceed to  what  will  interest  you  more, — 
the  excitements  and  tediousness  of  flights 
over  enemy  country.  Three  hours  ago  I 
returned  from  a  patrol  round  Mossy-Face 
Wood,  where  one  seldom  fails  to  meet  black- 
crossed  birds  of  prey,  so  I  will  begin  with  the 
subject  of  a  hunt  for  the  Flying  Deutschman. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  fighting  air  patrol, 
the  defensive  and  the  offensive,  the  pleas- 
antly exciting  and  the  excitingly  unpleasant. 
The  two  species  of  patrol  have  of  late  kept 
the  great  majority  of  German  craft  away 
from  our  lines. 

Airmen  who  look  for  trouble  over  enemy 
country  seldom  fail  to  find  it,  for  nothing 
enrages  the  Boche  more  than  the  overhead 
drone  of  allied  aircraft.  Here,  then,  are 
some  average  happenings  on  an  offensive 
patrol,  as  I  have  known  them. 

We  cross  the  lines  at  our  maximum  height, 
for  it  is  of  great  advantage  to  be  above  an 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME   199 

enemy  when  attacking.  Our  high  altitude  is 
also  useful  in  that  it  makes  us  a  small  target 
for  Herr  Archie,  which  is  distinctly  important, 
as  we  are  going  to  sit  over  him  for  the  next 
few  hours. 

Archie  only  takes  a  few  seconds  to  make 
up  his  mind  about  our  height  and  range. 
He  is  not  far  wrong  either,  as  witness  the 
ugly  black  bursts  slightly  ahead,  creeping 
nearer  and  nearer.  Now  there  are  two  bursts 
uncomfortably  close  to  the  leader's  machine, 
and  its  pilot  and  observer  hear  that  ominous 
wouff!  The  pilot  dips  and  swerves.  Another 
woujfl  and  he  is  watching  a  burst  that  might 
have  got  him,  had  he  kept  a  straight  course. 

Again  the  Archies  try  for  the  leader.  This 
time  their  shells  are  well  away,  in  fact  so 
far  back  that  they  are  near  our  bus.  The 
German  battery  notices  this,  and  we  are 
forthwith  bracketed  in  front  and  behind. 
We  swoop  away  in  a  second,  and  escape  with 
nothing  worse  than  a  violent  stagger,  and  we 
are  thrown  upward  as  a  shell  bursts  close 
underneath. 

But  we  soon  shake  off  the  Archie  group 
immediately  behind  the  lines.     Freed  from 


200  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  immediate  necessity  of  shell-dodging,  the 
flight -commander  leads  his  covey  around  the 
particular  hostile  preserve  marked  out  for 
his  attention.  Each  pilot  and  each  observer 
twists  his  neck  as  if  it  were  made  of  rubber, 
looking  above,  below,  and  all  around.  Only 
thus  can  one  guard  against  surprise  and  yet 
surprise  strangers,  and  avoid  being  surprised 
oneself.  An  airman  new  to  active  service 
often  finds  difficulty  in  acquiring  the  neces- 
sary intuitive  vision  which  attracts  his  eyes 
instinctively  to  hostile  craft.  If  his  machine 
straggles,  and  he  has  not  this  sixth  sense, 
he  will  sometimes  hear  the  rattle  of  a  mys- 
terious machine-gun,  or  even  the  phut  of  a 
bullet,  before  he  sees  the  swift  scout  that  has 
swooped  down  from  nowhere. 

There  is  a  moment  of  excitement  when  the 
flight-commander  spots  three  machines  two 
thousand  feet  below.  Are  they  Huns?  His 
observer  uses  field-glasses,  and  sees  black 
crosses  on  the  wings.  The  signal  to  attack 
is  fired,  and  we  follow  the  leader  into  a  steep 
dive. 

With  nerves  taut  and  every  faculty  con- 
centrated on  getting  near  enough  to  shoot, 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  201 

and  then  shooting  quickly  but  calmly,  we 
have  no  time  to  analyse  the  sensations  of 
that  dive.  We  may  feel  the  tremendous 
pressure  hemming  us  in  when  we  try  to 
lean  over  the  side,  but  otherwise  all  we 
realise  is  that  the  wind  is  whistling  past  the 
strained  wires,  that  our  guns  must  be  ready 
for  instant  use,  and  that  down  below  are 
some  enemies. 

The  flight-commander,  his  machine  aimed 
dead  at  the  leading  German,  follows  the 
enemy  trio  down,  down,  as  they  apparently 
seek  to  escape  by  going  ever  lower.  He  is 
almost  near  enough  for  some  shooting,  when 
the  Huns  dive  steeply,  with  the  evident  inten- 
tion of  landing  on  a  near-by  aerodrome.  One 
of  them  fires  a  light  as  he  goes,  and — enter  the 
villain  Archibald  to  loud  music.    A  ter-rap! 

Our  old  friend  Archie  has  been  lying  in 
wait  with  guns  set  for  a  certain  height,  to 
which  his  three  decoy  birds  have  led  us. 
There  crashes  a  discord  of  shell-bursts  as  we 
pull  our  machines  out  of  the  dive  and  swerve 
away.  The  last  machine  to  leave  the  un- 
healthy patch  of  air  is  pursued  for  some 
seconds  by  flaming  rockets. 


202  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

The  patrol  re-forms,  and  we  climb  to  our 
original  height.  One  machine  has  left  for 
home,  with  part  of  a  control  wire  dangling 
helplessly  beneath  it,  and  a  chunk  of  tail- 
plane  left  as  a  tribute  to  Archie. 

We  complete  the  course  and  go  over  it 
again,  with  nothing  more  exciting  than  fur- 
ther anti-aircraft  fire,  a  few  Huns  too  low 
for  another  dive,  and  a  sick  observer. 

Even  intrepid  birdmen  (war  correspond- 
entese  for  flying  officers)  tire  of  trying  to  be 
offensive  on  a  patrol,  and  by  now  we  are 
varying  our  rubber-neck  searchings  with  fur- 
tive glances  at  the  time,  in  the  hopes  that 
the  watch-hands  may  be  in  the  home-to- 
roost  position.  At  length  the  leader  heads 
for  the  lines,  and  the  lords  of  the  air  (more 
war  correspondentese)  forget  their  high  estate 
and  think  of  tea. 

Not  yet.  Coming  south  towards  Bapaume 
is  a  beautiful  flock  of  black-crossed  birds. 
As  often  happens,  the  German  biplanes  are 
ranged  one  above  the  other,  like  the  tiers 
of  a  dress-circle. 

Again  the  signal  to  attack,  and  the  flight- 
commander  sweeps  at  what  seems  to  be  the 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  203 

highest  enemy.  We  are  ranging  ourselves 
round  him,  when  two  enemy  scouts  sweep 
down  from  heaven-knows-where,  firing  as 
they  come.  Several  of  their  bullets  enter 
the  engine  of  our  rearmost  rearguard.  Find- 
ing that  the  engine  is  on  strike,  the  pilot 
detaches  his  machine  from  the  confusion  and 
glides  across  the  lines,  which  are  quite  close. 

For  five  minutes  there  is  a  medley  of  swift 
darts,  dives,  and  cart-wheel  turns,  amid  the 
continuous  ta-ta-ta-ta-ta  of  machine  -  guns. 
Then  a  German  machine  sways,  staggers, 
noses  downward  vertically,  and  rushes  earth- 
ward, spinning  rhythmically.  The  other 
Boches  put  their  noses  down  and  turn  east. 
We  follow  until  we  find  it  impossible  to 
catch  them  up,  whereupon  we  make  for 
home. 

The  trenches  are  now  passed,  and  our 
aerodrome  is  quite  near.  The  strained  nerve- 
tension  snaps,  the  air  seems  intoxicatingly 
light.  Pilots  and  observers  munch  chocolate 
contentedly  or  lift  up  their  voices  in  songs  of 
Blighty.  I  tackle  "The  Right  Side  of  Bond 
Street,"  and  think  of  pleasant  places  and 
beings,  such  as  Henley  during  regatta  week, 


2Q4   CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the    Babylon  Theatre,   and  your   delightful 
self. 

We  land,  piece  together  our  report,  and 
count  the  bullet-holes  on  the  machine.  In 
ten  minutes'  time  you  will  find  us  around 
the  mess-table,  reconstructing  the  fight  over 
late  afternoon  tea.  In  the  intervals  of  eating 
cake  I  shall  write  you,  and  the  gramophone 
will  be  shrilling  "Chalk  Farm  to  Camberwell 
Green." 

France,  July,  1916. 


II. 

"one  of  our  machines  is  missing." 

— Official  Report. 

Much  may  be  read  into  the  am- 
biguous word  "missing."  Applied  to  a  wife 
or  an  actress's  jewellery  it  can  mean  any- 
thing. Applied  to  a  man  on  active  service 
it  can  mean  one  of  three  things.  He  may 
be  dead,  he  may  be  a  prisoner,  he  may  be 
wounded  and  a  prisoner.  If  he  be  dead  he 
enters  Valhalla.  If  he  be  a  prisoner  and  a 
wise  man  he  enters  a  small  cheque  for  the 
German  Red  Cross,  as  being  the  quickest 
way  of  letting  his  bankers  and  relations  know 
he  is  alive. 

A  missing  aeroplane  no  longer  exists,  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten.  Either  it  is  lying  in 
pieces  on  enemy  ground,  smashed  by  an  un- 
controlled fall,  or  it  was  burned  by  its  former 
tenants  when  they  landed,  after  finding  it 
impossible  to  reach  safety.  Quite  recently 
my  pilot  and  I  nearly  had  to  do  this,  but 
were  just  able  to  glide  across  a  small  salient. 

205 


206   CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

V 

I  am  thus  qualified  to  describe  a  typical 
series  of  incidents  preceding  the  announce- 
ment, "one  of  our  machines  is  missing,"  and 
I  do  so  in  the  hope  that  this  may  interest 
you,  madam,  as  you  flit  from  town  to  coun- 
try, country  to  town,  and  so  to  bed. 

A  group  of  British  machines  are  carrying 
out  a  long  reconnaissance.  So  far  nothing 
has  happened  to  divert  the  observers  from 
their  notes  and  sketches,  and  a  pilot  con- 
gratulates himself  that  he  is  on  a  joy-ride. 
Next  instant  his  sixth  sense  tells  him  there 
is  something  in  the  air  quite  foreign  to  a 
joy-ride.  And  there  is.  A  thousand  yards 
ahead  some  eight  to  twelve  machines  have 
appeared.  The  reconnaissance  birds  keep  to 
their  course,  but  all  eyes  are  strained  to- 
wards the  newcomers.  Within  ten  seconds 
it  is  established  that  they  are  foes.  The  ob- 
servers put  aside  note-books  and  pencils,  and 
finger  their  machine-guns  expectantly. 

On  come  the  Germans  to  dispute  the 
right  of  way.  On  go  the  British,  not  seek- 
ing a  fight,  but  fully  prepared  to  force  a 
way  through.  Their  job  is  to  complete  the 
reconnaissance,  and  not  to  indulge  in  super- 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  207 

fluous  air  duels,  but  it  will  take  a  very  great 
deal  to  turn  them  from  their  path. 

Now  the  aggressors  are  within  300  yards, 
and  firing  opens.  When  the  fight  gets  to 
uncomfortably  close  quarters  the  Boches 
move  aside  and  follow  the  reconnaissance 
party,  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  sur- 
round stragglers.  Finally,  some  lucky  shots 
by  a  British  observer  cause  one  of  them  to 
land  in  a  damaged  condition,  whereupon  the 
rest  retire.  The  British  machines  finish  their 
job  and  return  with  useful  information. 

But  the  party  is  no  longer  complete.  The 
pilot  who  thought  of  joy-rides  was  in  the 
rear  machine,  and  the  rear  machine  has  dis- 
appeared. Two  Huns  cut  him  off  when  the 
rest  began  to  follow  the  British  formation. 

His  observer  takes  careful  aim  at  the 
nearest  enemy,  and  rattles  through  a  whole 
drum  as  the  German  sweeps  down  and  past, 
until  he  is  out  of  range.  The  pilot  vertical - 
turns  the  machine,  and  makes  for  the  second 
Boche.  But  this  gentleman,  refusing  to  con- 
tinue the  fight  alone,  dives  to  join  his  com- 
panion. The  pair  of  them  hover  about  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  disappear  eastward. 


208  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

The  lonely  pilot  and  observer  look  round 
and  take  their  bearings. 

"Where  are  the  others?"  shouts  the  pilot 
down  the  speaking-tube. 

"Right  away  to  the  north;  we  are  alone 
in  the  wicked  world."  Thus  the  observer's 
reply,  handed  across  on  a  slip  of  paper. 

Hoping  to  catch  sight  of  the  reconnais- 
sance party,  my  friend  the  pilot  opens  his 
engine  full  out  and  begins  to  follow  the 
course  that  remained  to  be  covered.  For 
ten  minutes  he  continues  the  attempt  to 
catch  up,  but  as  the  only  aeroplanes  to  be 
seen  are  coming  up  from  an  enemy  aero- 
drome he  decides  to  get  back  alone  as  quickly 
as  possible.     He  turns  due  west. 

The  homing  bird  must  fly  in  the  teeth  of 
a  strong  west  wind.  It  struggles  along 
gamely,  and  the  pilot  calculates  that  he  may 
reach  the  lines  within  twenty-five  minutes. 
But  he  has  a  queer  feeling  that  trouble  is 
ahead,  and,  like  his  observer,  he  turns  his 
head  around  the  horizon,  so  as  not  to  be 
caught  unprepared. 

All  goes  well  for  five  minutes,  except  for 
some   nasty   Archie   shells.     Then   the   two 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  209 

men  see  a  flock  of  aircraft  at  a  great  height, 
coming  from  the  north.  Although  black 
crosses  cannot  be  spotted  at  this  range,  the 
shape  and  peculiar  whiteness  of  the  wings 
make  it  probable  that  the  strangers  are* 
hostile.  Possibly  they  are  the  very  people 
who  attacked  and  followed  the  reconnais- 
sance formation. 

Our  pilot  puts  down  the  nose  of  his  ma- 
chine, and  races  westward.  The  strangers, 
making  good  use  of  their  extra  height,  turn 
south-west  and  try  to  head  him  off.  They 
gain  quickly,  and  pilot  and  observer  brace 
themselves  for  a  fight  against  odds. 

The  Germans  are  now  about  700  feet 
higher  than  my  friends,  and  directly  above 
them.  Four  enemies  dive,  at  an  average 
speed  of  150  miles  an  hour,  and  from  all 
directions  the  Britishers  hear  the  rattle  of 
machine-guns.  The  observer  engages  one 
of  the  Huns,  and  evidently  gets  in  some 
good  shooting,  for  it  swerves  away  and  lets 
another  take  its  place.  Meanwhile  enemy 
bullets  have  crashed  through  two  spars,  shot 
away  a  rudder-control,  and  ripped  several 
parts  of  the  fuselage. 


210     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

The  black-crossed  hawks  cluster  all  around. 
There  are  two  on  the  left,  one  on  the  right, 
one  underneath  the  tail,  and  two  above.  A 
seventh  Hun  sweeps  past  in  front,  about 
eighty  yards  ahead.  The  pilot's  gun  rakes 
it  from  stem  to  stern  as  it  crosses,  and  he 
gives  a  great  shout  as  its  petrol-tank  begins 
to  blaze  and  the  enemy  craft  flings  itself 
down,  with  a  stream  of  smoke  and  another 
flame  shooting  out  behind. 

But  his  own  petrol-tank  has  been  plugged 
from  the  side,  and  his  observer  has  a  bullet 
in  the  left  arm.  The  petrol  supply  is  regu- 
lated by  pressure,  and,  the  pressure  having 
gone  when  German  bullets  opened  the  tank, 
the  engine  gets  less  and  less  petrol,  and 
finally  ceases  work. 

To  glide  fifteen  miles  to  the  lines  is  clearly 
impossible.  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to 
accept  the  inevitable  and  choose  a  good  land- 
ing-ground. The  pilot  pushes  the  joystick 
slowly  forward  and  prepares  to  land. 

The  Germans  follow  their  prey  down,  ready 
to  destroy  if  by  any  chance  its  engine  comes 
back  to  life,  and  it  stops  losing  height.  The 
observer  tears  up  papers  and  maps,  performs 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  211 

certain  other  duties  whereby  the  enemy  is 
cheated  of  booty,  and  stuffs  all  personal  pos- 
sessions into  his  pocket. 

A  medley  of  thoughts  race  across  the  ob- 
server's mind  as  the  pilot  S-turns  the  ma- 
chine over  the  field  he  has  chosen.  A  prisoner ! 
— damnable  luck — all  papers  destroyed — arm 
hurting — useless  till  end  of  war — how  long 
will  it  last? — chances  of  escape — relieve  par- 
ents' suspense — must  write — due  for  leave — 
Marjorie — Piccadilly  in  the  sunshine — rotten 
luck — was  to  be — make  best  of  it — Kismet! 

One  duty  remains.  The  observer  digs  into 
the  petrol  tank  as  they  touch  earth,  and  then 
runs  round  the  machine.  In  a  second  the 
petrol  is  ablaze  and  the  fuselage  and  wings 
are  burning  merrily.  Germans  rush  up  and 
make  vain  attempts  to  put  out  the  fire.  Soon 
nothing  remains  but  charred  debris,  a  dis- 
coloured engine,  bits  of  metal  and  twisted 
wrires. 

My  friends  are  seized,  searched,  and  dis- 
armed. They  then  shake  hands  with  the 
German  pilots,  now  heatedly  discussing  who 
was  chiefly  responsible  for  their  success.  The 
captive   couple   are   lunched   by   the   enemy 


212     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

airmen,  who  see  that  the  wounded  observer 
receives  proper  attention.  At  the  risk  of 
incensing  some  of  your  eat-'em-alive  civilian 
friends,  I  may  say  we  have  plenty  of  evi- 
dence that  the  German  Flying  Corps  includes 
many  gentlemen. 

Later  my  friends  are  questioned,  searched 
again  from  head  to  toe,  and  packed  off  to 
Germany.  Just  now  they  are  affected  with 
deadly  heart-sickness,  due  to  the  wearisome 
inaction  of  confinement  in  a  hostile  land, 
while  we,  their  friends  and  brothers,  continue 
to  play  our  tiny  parts  in  Armageddon. 

I  enclose  their  names,  and  that  of  the 
prison  camp  where  they  are  lodged.  Per- 
haps you  will  find  time  to  send  them  some 
of  your  fast-dwindling  luxuries,  as  you  flit 
from  town  to  country,  country  to  town,  and 
\o  to  bed. 

France,  July,  1916 


m. 

A   BOMB    RAID. 

What  are  your  feelings,  dear  lady, 

as  you  watch  the  airships  that  pass  in  the 
night  and  hear  the  explosion  of  their  bombs? 
At  such  a  time  the  sensations  of  most  people, 
I  imagine,  are  a  mixture  of  deep  interest, 
deep  anger,  excitement,  nervousness,  and  de- 
sire for  revenge.  Certainly  they  do  not  in- 
clude speculation  about  the  men  who  man 
the  raiders. 

And  for  their  part,  the  men  who  man  the 
raiders  certainly  do  not  speculate  about  you 
and  your  state  of  mind.  When  back  home, 
some  of  them  may  wonder  what  feelings  they 
have  inspired  in  the  people  below,  but  at  the 
time  the  job's  the  thing  and  nothing  else 
matters. 

Out  here  we  bomb  only  places  of  military 
value,  and  do  it  mostly  in  the  daytime,  but 
I  should  think  our  experiences  must  have 
much    in    common    with    those    of   Zeppelin 

213 


214      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

crews.  I  can  assure  you  they  are  far  morts 
strenuous  than  yours  on  the  ground. 

Our  bombing  machines  in  France  visit  all 
sorts  of  places — forts,  garrison  towns,  railway 
junctions  and  railheads,  bivouac  grounds,  staff 
headquarters,  factories,  ammunition  depots, 
aerodromes,  Zeppelin  sheds,  and  naval  har- 
bours. Some  objectives  are  just  behind  the 
lines,  some  are  100  miles  away.  There  are 
also  free-lance  exploits,  as  when  a  pilot  with 
some  eggs  to  spare  dives  down  to  a  low  alti- 
tude and  drops  them  on  a  train  or  a  column  of 
troops. 

A  daylight  bomb  raid  is  seldom  a  complete 
failure,  but  the  results  are  sometimes  hard  to 
record.  If  an  ammunition  store  blows  up,  or 
a  railway  station  bursts  into  flames,  or  a  train 
is  swept  off  the  rails  and  the  lines  cut,  an  air- 
man can  see  enough  to  know  he  has  suc- 
ceeded. But  if  the  bombs  fall  on  something 
that  does  not  explode  or  catch  fire,  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  note  exactly  what  has 
been  hit.  Even  a  fire  is  hard  to  locate  while 
one  is  running  away  from  Archie  and  perhaps 
a  few  flaming  onions. 

Fighting   machines   often    accompany    the 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  215 

bombing  parties  as  escort.  The  fighters 
guard  the  bombers  until  the  eggs  are  dropped, 
and  seize  any  chances  of  a  scrap  on  the  way 
back.  It  is  only  thus  that  I  have  played  a 
part  in  raids,  for  our  squadron  does  not  add 
bombs  to  its  other  troubles.  I  will  now  tell 
you,  my  very  dear  friend,  about  one  such  trip. 

The  morning  is  clear  and  filled  with  sun- 
shine, but  a  strong  westerly  wind  is  blowing. 
This  will  increase  our  speed  on  the  outward 
journey,  and  so  help  to  make  the  attack  a 
surprise.  Those  low-lying  banks  of  thick 
white  clouds  are  also  favourable  to  the  factor 
of  surprise. 

It  is  just  before  midday,  and  we  are  gath- 
ered in  a  group  near  the  machines,  listening 
to  the  flight-commander's  final  directions. 
Punctually  at  noon  the  bombers  leave  the 
ground,  climb  to  the  rendezvous  height,  and 
arrange  themselves  in  formation.  The  scout 
machines  constituting  the  escort  proper  fol- 
low, and  rise  to  a  few  hundred  feet  above 
the  bombers.  The  whole  party  circles  round 
the  aerodrome  until  the  signal  strips  for 
"Carry  on"  are  laid  out  on  the  ground,  when 
it  heads  for  the  lines. 


216     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

At  this  point  we,  the  fighting  two-seaters, 
start  up  and  climb  to  our  allotted  height. 
We  are  to  follow  the  bombing  party  and  act 
as  a  rearguard  until  the  eggs  have  fallen. 
Afterwards,  when  the  others  have  finished 
their  little  bit  and  get  home  to  their  tea, 
it  will  be  our  pleasant  task  to  hang  about 
between  the  lines  and  the  scene  of  the  raid, 
and  deal  with  such  infuriated  Boche  pilots 
as  may  take  the  air  with  some  idea  of  re- 
venge. 

We  travel  eastwards,  keeping  well  in  sight 
of  the  bombers.  The  ridges  of  clouds  become 
more  numerous,  and  only  through  gaps  can 
we  see  the  trenches  and  other  landmarks. 
Archie,  also,  can  only  see  through  the  gaps, 
and,  disconcerted  by  the  low  clouds,  his  per- 
formance is  not  so  good  as  usual.  But  for  a 
few  shells,  very  wide  of  the  mark,  we  are 
not  interrupted,  for  there  are  no  German 
craft  in  sight. 

With  the  powerful  wind  behind  us  we  are 
soon  over  the  objective,  a  large  wood  some 
few  miles  behind  the  lines.  The  wood  is 
reported  to  be  a  favourite  bivouac  ground, 
and  it  is  surrounded  by  Boche  aerodromes. 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  217 

Now  the  bombers  drop  below  the  clouds 
to  a  height  convenient  for  their  job.  As  the 
wood  covers  an  area  of  several  square  miles 
and  almost  any  part  of  it  may  contain  troops, 
there  is  no  need  to  descend  far  before  taking 
aim.  Each  pilot  chooses  a  spot  for  his  par- 
ticular attention,  for  preference  somewhere 
near  the  road  that  bisects  the  wood.  He 
aligns  his  sights  on  the  target,  releases  the 
bombs,  and  watches  for  signs  of  an  inter- 
rupted lunch  below. 

It  is  quite  impossible  to  tell  the  extent 
of  the  damage,  for  the  raid  is  directed  not 
against  some  definite  object,  but  against  an 
area  containing  troops,  guns,  and  stores.  The 
damage  will  be  as  much  moral  as  material 
since  nothing  unnerves  war-weary  men  more 
than  to  realise  that  they  are  never  safe  from 
aircraft. 

The  guns  get  busy  at  once,  for  the  wood 
contains  a  nest  of  Archies.  Ugly  black  bursts 
surround  the  bombers,  who  swerve  and  zig- 
zag as  they  run.  When  well  away  from  the 
wood  they  climb  back  to  us  through  the 
clouds. 

We  turn  west  and  battle  our  way  against 


218  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  wind,  now  our  foe.  Half-way  to  the  lines 
we  wave  an  envious  good-bye  to  the  bombers 
and  scouts,  and  begin  our  solitary  patrol 
above  the  clouds. 

We  cruise  all  round  the  compass,  hunting 
for  Huns.  Twice  we  see  enemy  machines 
through  rifts  in  the  clouds,  but  each  time  we 
dive  towards  them  they  refuse  battle  and 
remain  at  a  height  of  some  thousand  feet, 
ready  to  drop  even  lower,  if  they  can  lure  us 
down  through  the  barrage  of  A.-A.  shells. 
Nothing  else  of  importance  happens,  and 
things  get  monotonous.  I  look  at  my  watch 
and  think  it  the  slowest  thing  on  earth, 
slower  than  the  leave  train.  The  minute- 
hand  creeps  round,  and  homing-time  arrives. 

We  have  one  more  flutter  on  the  way  to 
the  trenches.  Two  Huns  come  to  sniff  at 
us,  and  we  dive  below  the  clouds  once  more. 

But  it  is  the  old,  old  dodge  of  trying  to 
salt  the  bird's  tail.  The  Hun  decoys  make 
themselves  scarce — and  H.E.  bursts  make 
themselves  plentiful.  Archie  has  got  the 
range  of  those  clouds  to  a  few  feet,  and, 
since  we  are  a  little  beneath  them,  he  has 
cot  our  range   too.     We   dodge  with   dim- 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  219 

culty,  for  Archie  revels  in  a  background  of 
low  clouds.  Nobody  is  hit,  however,  and 
our  party  crosses  the  lines;  and  so  home. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  our  fighting 
machines,  the  afternoon  has  been  uneventful. 
Nevertheless,  the  job  has  been  done,  so  much 
so  that  the  dwellers  in  the  wood  where  we 
left  our  cards  are  still  regretting  their  dis- 
turbed luncheon,  while  airmen  and  A. -A. 
gunners  around  the  wood  tell  each  other 
what  they  will  do  to  the  next  lot  of  raiders. 
We  shall  probably  call  on  them  again  next 
week,  when  I  will  let  you  know  whether 
their  bloodthirsty  intentions  mature. 

Fbawce,  September,  Mli 


IV. 

SPYING   BY   SNAPSHOT. 

Since  daybreak  a  great  wind  has 

raged  from  the  east,  and  even  as  I  write 
you,  my  best  of  friends,  it  whines  past  the 
mess-tent.  This,  together  with  low  clouds, 
had  kept  aircraft  inactive — a  state  of  things 
in  which  we  had  revelled  for  nearly  a  week, 
owing  to  rain  and  mist. 

However,  towards  late  afternoon  the  clouds 
were  blown  from  the  trench  region,  and  ar- 
tillery machines  snatched  a  few  hours'  work 
from  the  fag-end  of  daylight.  The  wind  was 
too  strong  for  offensive  patrols  or  long  recon- 
naissance, so  that  we  of  Umpty  Squadron  did 
not  expect  a  call  to  flight. 

But  the  powers  that  control  our  outgoings 
and  incomings  thought  otherwise.  In  view  of 
the  morrow's  operations  they  wanted  urgently 
a  plan  of  some  new  defences  on  which  the 
Hun  had  been  busy  during  the  spell  of  dud 
weather.    They  selected  Umpty  Squadron  fo? 

«20 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  221 

the  job,  probably  because  the  Sop  with  would 
be  likely  to  complete  it  more  quickly  than 
any  other  type,  under  the  adverse  conditions 
and  the  time-limit  set  by  the  sinking  sun. 
The  Squadron  Commander  detailed  two  buses 
— ours  and  another. 

As  it  was  late,  we  had  little  leisure  for 
preparation;  the  cameras  were  brought  in  a 
hurry  from  the  photographic  lorry,  examined 
hastily  by  the  observers  who  were  to  use 
them,  and  fitted  into  the  conical  recesses 
through  the  fuselage  floor.  We  rose  from  the 
aerodrome  within  fifteen  minutes  of  the  de- 
liverance of  flying  orders. 

Because  of  doubtful  light  the  photographs 
were  to  be  taken  from  the  comparatively  low 
altitude  of  7000  feet.  We  were  able,  there- 
fore, to  complete  our  climb  while  on  the  way 
to  Albert,  after  meeting  the  second  machine 
at  2000  feet. 

All  went  well  until  we  reached  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Albert,  but  there  we  ran  into  a 
thick  ridge  of  cloud  and  became  separated. 
We  dropped  below  into  the  clear  air,  and 
hovered  about  in  a  search  for  the  companion 
bus.     Five  minutes  brought  no  sign  of  its 


222  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS  t 

whereabouts,  so  we  continued  alone  towards 
the  trenches.  Three  minutes  later,  when 
about  one  mile  west  of  Pozieres,  we  sighted, 
some  900  yards  to  north  of  us,  a  solitary 
machine  that  looked  like  a  Sop  with,  though 
one  could  not  be  certain  at  such  a  range.  If 
it  was  indeed  our  second  bus,  its  pilot,  who 
was  new  to  France,  must  have  misjudged 
his  bearings,  for  it  nosed  across  to  the  Ger- 
man air  country  and  merged  into  the  noth- 
ingness, miles  away  from  our  objective.  What 
became  of  the  lost  craft  is  a  mystery  which 
may  be  cleared  up  to-morrow,  or  more  prob- 
ably in  a  month's  time  by  communication 
from  the  German  Prisoners'  Bureau,  or  may- 
be never.  Thus  far  we  have  heard  nothing, 
so  a  forced  landing  on  British  ground  is  un- 
likely. For  the  rest,  the  pilot  and  observer 
may  be  killed,  wounded,  injured,  or  prisoners. 
All  we  know  is  that  they  flew  into  the  Ewig- 
keit  and  are  "missing." 

For  these  many  weeks  Pozieres  has  been 
but  a  name  and  a  waste  brick  pile;  yet  the 
site  of  the  powdered  village  cannot  be  mis- 
taken from  the  air,  for,  slightly  to  the  east, 
two  huge  mine-craters  sentinel  it,  left  and 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  223 

right.  From  here  to  Le  Sars,  which  straddles 
the  road  four  miles  beyond,  was  our  photo- 
graphic objective.  We  were  to  cover  either 
side  of  the  road  twice,  so  I  had  arranged  to 
use  half  the  number  of  plates  during  each 
there-and-back  journey. 

The  R.F.C.  camera  used  by  us  is  so  simple 
as  to  be  called  foolproof.  Eighteen  plates 
are  stacked  in  a  changing-box  over  the  shut- 
ter. You  slide  the  loading  handle  forward 
and  backward,  and  the  first  plate  falls  into 
position.  Arrived  over  the  spot  to  be  spied 
upon,  you  take  careful  sight  and  pull  a  string 
— and  the  camera  has  reproduced  whatever 
is  9000  feet  below  it.  Again  you  operate  the 
loading  handle;  the  exposed  plate  is  pushed 
into  an  empty  changing-box  underneath  an 
extension,  and  plate  the  second  falls  into 
readiness  for  exposure,  while  the  indicator 
shows  2.  And  so  on  until  the  changing-box 
for  bare  plates  is  emptied  and  the  changing- 
box  for  used  ones  is  filled.  Whatever  skill 
attaches  to  the  taking  of  aerial  snapshots  is  in 
judging  when  the  machine  is  flying  dead  level 
and  above  the  exact  objective,  and  in  repeating 
the  process  after  a  properly  timed  interval. 


-224     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

A.-A.  guns  by  the  dozen  hit  out  imme- 
diately we  crossed  the  lines,  for  we  were 
their  one  target.  No  other  craft  were  in 
sight,  except  a  lone  B.E.,  which  was  drifted 
by  the  wind  as  it  spotted  for  artillery  from 
the  British  side  of  the  trenches.  Scores  of 
black  puffs,  attended  by  cavernous  coughs, 
did  their  best  to  put  the  wind  up  us.  They 
succeeded  to  a  certain  extent,  though  not 
enough  to  hinder  the  work  on  hand. 

Everything  was  in  Archie's  favour.  We 
were  at  7000  feet — an  easy  height  for  A.-A. 
sighting — we  were  silhouetted  against  a  cover 
of  high  clouds,  our  ground  speed  was  only 
some  thirty  miles  an  hour  against  the  raging 
wind,  and  we  dared  not  dodge  the  bursts, 
however  close,  as  area  photography  from  any- 
thing but  an  even  line  of  flight  is  useless. 
Yet,  though  the  bursts  kept  us  on  edge,  we 
were  not  touched  by  so  much  as  a  splinter. 
In  this  we  were  lucky  under  the  conditions. 
The  luck  could  scarcely  have  held  had  the 
job  lasted  much  longer  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour — which  is  a  consoling  thought  when  one 
is  safe  back  and  writing  to  a  dear  friend  in 
England,  not? 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  225 

Northward,  along  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
road,  was  my  first  subject;  and  a  damned 
unpleasant  subject  it  was — a  dirty-soiled, 
shell-scarred  wilderness.  I  looked  overboard 
to  make  certain  of  the  map  square,  with- 
drew back  into  the  office,  pulled  the  shutter- 
string,  and  loaded  the  next  plate  for  exposure. 

"Woujf!  Ouffl  Ouffl"  barked  Archie, 
many  times  and  loud.  An  instinct  to  swerve 
assaulted  the  pilot,  but  after  a  slight  devia- 
tion he  controlled  his  impulse  and  held  the 
bus  above  the  roadside.  He  had  a  difficult 
task  to  maintain  a  level  course.  Whereas  we 
wanted  to  make  east-north-east,  the  wind 
was  due  east,  so  that  it  cut  across  and  drifted 
us  in  a  transverse  direction.  To  keep  straight 
it  was  necessary  to  steer  crooked — that  is  to 
say,  head  three-quarters  into  the  wind  to 
counteract  the  drift,  the  line  of  flight  thus 
forming  an  angle  of  about  12°  with  the  longi- 
tudinal axis  of  the  aeroplane. 

"Woujf!  oujf!"  Archibald  continued,  as  I 
counted  in  seconds  the  interval  to  the  scene 
of  the  next  snapshot,  which,  as  assurance 
that  the  whole  ground  would  be  covered, 
was  to  overlap  slightly  the  first.     A  quick 


226     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

glance  below,  another  tug  at  the  string,  and 
plate  the  second  was  etched  with  informa- 
tion. The  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  followed; 
and  finally,  to  our  great  relief,  we  reach  Le 
Sars. 

Here  the  pilot  was  able  to  dodge  for  a 
few  seconds  while  we  turned  to  retrace  the 
course,  this  time  along  the  southern  edge  of 
the  road.  He  side-slipped  the  bus,  pulled  it 
around  in  an  Immelman  turn,  and  then  felt 
the  rudder-controls  until  we  were  in  the  re- 
quired direction.  The  interval  between  suc- 
cessive exposures  was  now  shorter,  as  the 
east  wind  brought  our  ground  speed  to  120 
miles  an  hour,  even  with  the  engine  throttled 
back.  There  was  scarcely  time  to  sight  the 
objective  before  the  photograph  must  be 
taken  and  the  next  plate  loaded  into  place. 
Within  two  minutes  we  were  again  over 
Pozieres. 

V.  took  us  across  the  lines,  so  as  to  de- 
ceive the  Archie  merchants  into  a  belief  that 
we  were  going  home.  We  then  climbed  a 
little,  turned  sharply,  and  began  to  repeat 
our  outward  trip  to  north  of  the  road. 

Evidently  Archie  had  allowed  his  leg  to 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  227 

be  pulled  by  the  feint,  and  for  two  minutes 
lie  only  molested  the  machine  with  a  few 
wild  shots.  But  soon  he  recovered  his  old 
form,  so  that  when  we  had  reached  Le  Sars 
the  bus  was  again  wreathed  by  black  puffs. 
We  vertical  -  turned  across  the  road  and 
headed  for  the  trenches  once  more,  with 
the  last  few  plates  waiting  for  exposure. 

Archie  now  seemed  to  treat  the  deliber- 
ation of  the  solitary  machine's  movements 
as  a  challenge  to  his  ability,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  make  us  pay  for  our  seeming  con- 
tempt. An  ugly  barrage  of  A.-A.  shell- 
bursts  separated  us  from  friendly  air,  the 
discs  of  black  smoke  expanding  as  they 
hung  in  little  clusters.  Into  this  barrier  of 
hate  we  went  unwillingly,  like  children  sent 
to  church  as  a  duty. 

Scores  of  staccato  war-whoops  reminded 
us  that  the  Boche  gunners  wanted  our  scalp. 
I  don't  know  how  V.  felt  about  it,  but  I 
well  know  that  I  was  in  a  state  of  acute 
fear.  Half-way  to  Pozieres  I  abandoned 
checking  the  ground  by  the  map,  and  judged 
the  final  photographs  by  counting  the  sec- 
onds between  each — "one,  two,  three,  four 


228     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

(wouff!  wouff!  wouff!  wouff!) ";  pull  the  string, 
press  forward  the  loading-handle,  bring  it 
back;  "one,  two,  three,  four  (wouff!  wouff! 
wouff!  wouff!)"  et-cetera.  Just  as  the  final 
plate-number  showed  on  the  indicator  a 
mighty  report  from  underneath  startled  us, 
and  the  machine  was  pressed  upward,  left 
wing  down. 

This  was  terrifying  enough  but  not  harm- 
ful, for  not  one  of  the  fragments  from  the 
near  burst  touched  us,  strange  to  say.  The 
pilot  righted  the  bus,  and  I  made  the  last 
exposure,  without,  I  am  afraid,  caring  what 
patch  of  earth  was  shuttered  on  to  the  plate. 

Nose  down  and  engine  full  out,  we  hared 
over  the  trenches.  Archie's  hate  followed 
for  some  distance,  but  to  no  purpose;  and 
at  last  we  were  at  liberty  to  fly  home,  at 
peace  with  the  wind  and  the  world.  Vs'e 
landed  less  than  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
after  we  had  left  the  aerodrome  in  a  hurry. 

"Good  boys,"  said  the  Squadron  Com- 
mander; "now  see  that  lightning  is  used  in 
developing  your  prints." 

The  camera  was  rushed  to  the  photo- 
graphic lorry,  the  plates  were  unloaded  in 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  229 

the  dark  hut,  the  negatives  were  developed. 
Half  an  hour  later  I  received  the  first  proofs, 
and,  with  them,  some  degree  of  disappoint- 
ment. Those  covering  the  first  outward  and 
return  journey  between  Pozieres  and  Le  Sars 
were  good,  as  were  the  next  three,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  second  journey.  Then  came 
a  confused  blur  of  superimposed  ground- 
patterns,  and  at  the  last  five  results  blank 
as  the  brain  of  a  flapper.  A  jamb  in  the 
upper  changing-box  had  led  to  five  exposures 
on  the  one  plate. 

As  you  know,  mon  amie,  I  am  a  fool.  But 
I  do  not  like  to  be  reminded  of  the  self- 
evident  fact.  The  photographic  officer  said  I 
must  have  made  some  silly  mistake  with  the 
loading  handle,  and  he  remarked  sadly  that 
the  camera  was  supposed  to  be  foolproof.  I 
said  he  must  have  made  some  silly  mistake 
when  inspecting  the  camera  before  it  left  his 
workshop,  and  I  remarked  viciously  that  the 
camera  was  foolproof  against  a  careless  oper- 
ator, but  by  no  means  foolproof  against  the 
careless  expert.  There  we  left  the  subject 
and  the  spoiled  plates,  as  the  evening  was 
too  far  advanced  for  the  trip  to  be  repeated. 


230     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

As  the  photoman  has  a  pleasant  job  at  wing 
headquarters,  whereas  I  am  but  an  observer 
— that  is  to  say,  an  R.F.C.  doormat — the 
blame  was  laid  on  me  as  a  matter  of  course. 
However,  the  information  supplied  by  the 
successful  exposures  pleased  the  staff  people 
at  whose  instigation  the  deed  was  done,  and 
this  was  all  that  really  mattered. 

I  have  already  told  you  that  our  main 
work  in  umpty  squadron  is  long  reconnais- 
sance for  G.H.Q.  and  offensive  patrol.  Spe- 
cial photographic  stunts  such  as  happened 
to-day  are  rare,  thank  the  Lord.  But  our 
cameras  often  prepare  the  way  for  a  bomb- 
ing expedition.  An  observer  returns  from  a 
reconnaissance  flight  with  snapshots  of  a 
railhead,  a  busy  factory,  or  an  army  head- 
quarters. Prints  are  sent  to  the  "I"  people, 
who,  at  their  leisure,  map  out  in  detail  the 
point  of  interest.  No  fear  of  doubtful  re- 
ports from  the  glossed  surface  of  geometrical 
reproduction,  for  the  camera,  our  most  trusted 
spy,  cannot  distort  the  truth.  Next  a  com- 
plete plan  of  the  chosen  objective,  with  its 
surroundings,  is  given  to  a  bombing  squad- 
ron; and  finally,  the  pilots  concerned,  well 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  231 

primed  with  knowledge  of  exactly  where  to 
align  their  bombsights,  fly  off  to  destroy. 

For  the  corps  and  army  squadrons  of  the 
R.F.C.  photography  has  a  prominent  place 
in  the  daily  round.  To  them  falls  the  duty  of 
providing  survey-maps  of  the  complete  sys- 
tem of  enemy  defences.  Their  all-seeing  lenses 
penetrate  through  camouflage  to  new  trenches 
and  emplacements,  while  exposing  fake  forti- 
fications. The  broken  or  unbroken  German 
line  is  fully  revealed,  even  to  such  details  as 
the  barbed  wire  in  front  and  the  approaches 
in  rear. 

For  clues  to  battery  positions  and  the  like, 
the  gun  country  behind  the  frontier  of  the 
trenches  is  likewise  searched  by  camera.  One 
day  a  certain  square  on  the  artillery  map 
seems  lifeless.  The  following  afternoon  an 
overhead  snapshot  reveals  a  new  clump  of 
trees  or  a  curious  mark  not  to  be  found  on 
earlier  photographs.  On  the  third  day  the 
mark  has  disappeared,  or  the  trees  are  clus- 
tered in  a  slightly  different  shape.  But  mean- 
while an  exact  position  has  been  pin-pointed, 
so  that  certain  heavy  guns  busy  themselves 
with  concentrated  fire.     By  the  fourth  day 


232      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  new  gun-pits,  or  whatever  it  was  that 
the  Hun  tried  to  smuggle  into  place  un- 
noticed, have  been  demolished  and  is  re- 
placed by  a  wide  rash  of  shell-holes. 

Wonderful  indeed  is  the  record  of  war  as 
preserved  by  prints  in  the  archives  of  our 
photographic  section.  For  example,  we  were 
shown  last  week  a  pair  of  striking  snapshots 
taken  above  Martinpuich,  before  and  after 
bombardment.  The  Before  one  pictured  a 
neat  little  village  in  compact  perspective  of 
squares,  rectangles,  and  triangles.  The  After- 
math pictured  a  tangled  heap  of  sprawling 
chaos,  as  little  like  a  village  as  is  the  usual 
popular  novel  like  literature. 

Of  all  the  Flying  Corps  photographs  of 
war,  perhaps  the  most  striking  is  that  taken 
before  Ypres  of  the  first  Hun  gas  attack. 
A  B.E,.C,  well  behind  the  German  lines, 
caught  sight  of  a  strange  snowball  of  a  cloud 
rolling  across  open  ground,  in  the  wake  of  an 
east  wind.  It  flew  to  investigate,  and  the 
pilot  photographed  the  phenomenon  from  the 
rear.  This  reproduction  of  a  tenuous  mass 
blown  along  the  discoloured  earth  will  show 
coming    generations   how   the   Boche    intro- 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  233 

duced  to  the  black  art  of  warfare  its  most 
devilish  form  of  f rightfulness. 

I  would  send  you  a  few  aerial  photographs, 
as  you  suggest,  if  the  private  possession  of 
them  were  not  strictly  verboten.  Possibly 
you  will  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  all  you 
want  later,  for  if  the  authorities  concerned  are 
wise  they  will  form  a  public  collection  of  a  few 
thousand  representative  snapshots,  to  show, 
the  worlds  of  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  the  day 
after  what  the  camera  did  in  the  great  war. 
Such  a  permanent  record  would  be  of  great 
value  to  the  military  historian;  and  on  a 
rainy  afternoon,  when  the  more  vapid  of  the 
revues  were  not  offering  matinees,  they  might 
even  be  of  interest  to  the  average  Lon- 
doner. 

I  can  tell  you  little  of  the  technical  branch 
of  this  new  science,  which  has  influenced  so 
largely  the  changing  war  of  the  past  two 
years,  and  which  will  play  an  even  greater 
part  in  the  decisive  war  of  the  next  two. 
All  I  know  is  that  hundreds  of  photos  are 
taken  every  day  over  enemy  country,  that 
ninety  per  cent  of  them  are  successful,  and 
that  the  trained  mechanics  sometimes  pro- 


234     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

duce  finished  prints  twenty  minutes  after  w« 
have  given  them  our  plates. 

Moreover,  I  am  not  anxious  to  discuss  the 
subject  further,  for  it  is  10  p.m.,  and  at  5 
a.m.,  unless  my  good  angel  sends  bad  weather, 
I  shall  be  starting  for  an  offensive  patrol  over 
Mossy-Face.  Also  you  don't  deserve  even 
this  much,  as  I  have  received  no  correspond- 
ence, books,  or  pork-pies  from  you  for  over  a 
week.  In  ten  minutes'  time  I  shall  be  em- 
ployed on  the  nightly  slaughter  of  the  spiders* 
earwigs,  and  moths  that  plague  my  tent. 

Good  night. 

France,  September,  1916 


V. 

THE  ARCHIBALD   FAMILY. 

You  remark  on  the  familiarity  with 

which  I  speak  of  Archie,  and  you  ask  for  de- 
tailed information  about  his  character  and 
habits.  Why  should  I  not  treat  him  with 
familiarity?  If  a  man  calls  on  you  nearly 
every  day  you  are  entitled  to  use  his  Christian 
name.  And  if  the  intimacy  be  such  that  at 
each  visit  he  tries  to  punch  your  head,  he 
becomes  more  a  brother  than  a  friend. 

How,  you  continue,  did  a  creature  so  stren- 
uous as  the  anti-aircraft  gun  come  by  the 
flippant  name  of  Archie?  Well,  once  upon  a 
time  the  Boche  A.- A.  guns  were  very  young 
and  had  all  the  impetuous  inaccuracy  inci- 
dent to  youth.  British  airmen  scarcely  knew 
they  were  fired  at  until  they  saw  the  pretty, 
white  puffs  in  the  distance. 

One  day  a  pilot  noticed  some  far-away 
bursts,  presumably  meant  for  him.  He  was 
young  enough   to   remember   the   good    old 

235 


MG     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

days  (you  would  doubtless  call  them  the  bad 
old  days)  when  the  music-halls  produced 
hearty,  if  vulgar,  humour,  and  he  murmured 
' '  Archibald,  certainly  not ! ' '  The  name  clung, 
and  as  Archibald  the  A.-A.  gun  will  go  down 
to  posterity.  You  can  take  it  or  leave  it; 
any  way,  I  cannot  think  of  a  better  explana- 
tion for  the  moment. 

Archie  has  since  grown  up  and  become 
sober,  calculating,  accurate,  relentless,  cun- 
ning, and  deadly  mathematical.  John  or 
Ernest  would  now  fit  him  better,  as  being 
more  serious,  or  Wilhelm,  as  being  more 
frightful.  For  Archie  is  a  true  apostle  of 
frightfulness.  There  is  no  greater  adept  at 
the  gentle  art  of  "putting  the  wind  up" 
people. 

Few  airmen  get  hardened  to  the  villainous 
noise  of  a  loud  woujf!  wouffl  at  12,000  feet, 
especially  when  it  is  near  enough  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  shriek  of  shell-fragments.  Noth- 
ing disconcerts  a  man  more  as  he  tries  to 
spy  out  the  land,  take  photographs,  direct 
artillery  fire,  or  take  aim  through  a  bomb* 
sight,  than  to  hear  this  noise  and  perhaps  be 
lifted  a  hundred  feet  or  so  when  a  shell  bursts 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  237 

close  underneath.  And  one  is  haunted  by 
the  knowledge  that,  unlike  the  indirect  fire 
of  the  more  precise  guns,  Archie  keeps  his 
own  eyes  on  the  target  and  can  observe  all 
swerves  and  dashes  for  safety. 

To  anybody  who  has  seen  a  machine 
broken  up  by  a  direct  hit  at  some  height 
between  8,000  and  15,000  feet,  Archie  be- 
comes a  prince  among  the  demons  of  destruc- 
tion. Direct  hits  are  fortunately  few,  but 
hits  by  stray  fragments  are  unfortunately 
many.  Yet,  though  the  damage  on  such 
occasions  is  regrettable,  it  is  seldom  over- 
whelming. Given  a  skilful  pilot  and  a  well- 
rigged  bus,  miracles  can  happen,  though  a 
machine  stands  no  technical  chance  of  stag- 
gering home.  In  the  air  uncommon  escapes 
are  common  enough. 

On  several  occasions,  after  a  direct  hit,  a 
wounded  British  pilot  has  brought  his  craft 
to  safety,  with  wings  and  fuselage  weirdly 
ventilated  and  half  the  control  wires  help- 
less. Archie  wounded  a  pilot  from  our  aero- 
drome in  the  head  and  leg,  and  an  opening 
the  size  of  a  duck's  egg  was  ripped  into  the 
petrol  tank  facing  him.    The  pressure  went, 


238     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

and  so  did  the  engine-power.  The  lines  were 
too  distant  to  be  reached  in  a  glide,  so  the 
machine  planed  down  towards  Hun  territory. 
The  pilot  was  growing  weak  from  loss  of 
blood,  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  he  stuck 
his  knee  into  the  hole  he  might  be  able  to 
pump  up  pressure.  He  tried  this,  and  the 
engine  came  back  to  life  50  feet  from  the 
ground.  At  this  height  he  flew,  in  a  semi- 
conscious condition,  twelve  miles  over  enemy 
country  and  crossed  the  lines  with  his  bus 
scarcely  touched  by  the  dozens  of  machine- 
guns  trained  on  it. 

One  of  our  pilots  lost  most  of  his  rudder, 
but  managed  to  get  back  by  juggling  with 
his  elevator  and  ailerons.  The  fuselage  of 
my  own  machine  was  once  set  on  fire  by  a 
chunk  of  burning  H.E.  The  flames  died 
out  under  pressure  from  gloves  and  hands, 
just  as  they  had  touched  the  drums  of  am- 
munition and  all  but  eaten  through  a  lon- 
geron. 

Escapes  from  personal  injuries  have  been 
quite  as  strange.  A  piece  of  high  explosive 
hit  a  machine  sideways,  passed  right  through 
the  observer's  cockpit,  and  grazed  two  knee 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  239 

caps  belonging  to  a  friend  of  mine.  He  was 
left  with  nothing  worse  than  two  cuts  and 
mild  shell-shock. 

Scottie,  another  observer  (now  a  prisoner, 
poor  chap),  leaned  forward  to  look  at  his 
map  while  on  a  reconnaissance.  A  dainty 
morsel  from  an  Archie  shell  hurtled  through 
the  air  and  grazed  the  back  of  his  neck.  He 
finished  the  reconnaissance,  made  out  his  re- 
port, and  got  the  scratch  dressed  at  the  hos- 
pital. Next  day  he  resumed  work;  and  he 
was  delighted  to  find  himself  in  the  Roll  of 
Honour,  under  the  heading  "Wounded."  I 
once  heard  him  explain  to  a  new  observer 
that  when  flying  a  close  study  of  the  map 
was  a  guarantee  against  losing  one's  way, 
one's  head — and  one's  neck. 

The  Archibald  family  tree  has  several 
branches.  Whenever  the  founder  of  the 
family  went  on  the  burst  he  broke  out  in 
the  form  of  white  puffs,  like  those  thrown 
from  the  funnel  of  a  liner  when  it  begins  to 
slow  down.  The  white  bursts  still  seek  us 
out,  but  the  modern  Boche  A.-A.  gunner 
specialises  more  in  the  black  variety.  The 
white  bursts  contain  shrapnel,  which  is  cast 


240  CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

outwards  and  upwards;  the  black  ones  con- 
tain high  explosive,  which  spreads  all  around. 

H.E.  has  a  lesser  radius  of  solid  f rightful- 
ness than  shrapnel,  but  if  it  does  hit  a  ma- 
chine the  damage  is  greater.  For  vocal 
frightfulness  the  black  beat  the  white  hol- 
low. If  the  Titans  ever  had  an  epidemic  of 
whooping-cough,  and  a  score  of  them  cho- 
rused the  symptoms  in  unison,  I  should  imag- 
ine the  noise  was  like  the  bursting  of  a  black 
Archie  shell. 

Then  there  is  the  green  branch  of  the 
family.  This  is  something  of  a  problem. 
One  theory  is  that  the  green  bursts  are  for 
ranging  purposes  only,  another  that  they 
contain  a  special  brand  of  H.E.,  and  a  third 
declares  them  to  be  gas  shells.  All  three 
suggestions  may  be  partly  true,  for  there  is 
certainly  more  than  one  brand  of  green 
Archie. 

First  cousin  to  Archie  is  the  onion,  other- 
wise the  flaming  rocket.  It  is  fired  in  a 
long  stream  of  what  look  like  short  rect' 
angles  of  compressed  flame  at  machines  that 
have  been  enticed  down  to  a  height  of  4000 
to  6000  feet.     It  is  most  impressive  as  a 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  241 

firework  display.  There  are  also  colourless 
phosphorous  rockets  that  describe  a  wide 
parabola  in  their  flight. 

Within  the  past  month  or  two  we  have 
been  entertained  at  rare  intervals  by  the 
family  ghost.  This  fascinating  and  mys- 
terious being  appears  very  suddenly  in  the 
form  of  a  pillar  of  white  smoke,  stretching 
to  a  height  of  several  thousand  feet.  It  is 
straight,  and  apparently  rigid  as  far  as  the 
top,  where  it  sprays  round  into  a  knob. 
Altogether,  it  suggests  a  giant  piece  of  cel- 
ery. It  does  not  seem  to  disperse;  but  if 
you  pass  on  and  look  away  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  you  will  find  on  your  return  that  it 
lias  faded  away  as  suddenly  as  it  came,  after 
the  manner  of  ghosts.  Whether  the  pillars 
are  intended  to  distribute  gas  is  uncertain, 
but  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  on  the  few  occa- 
sions when  we  have  seen  them  they  have 
appeared  to  windward  of  us. 

Like  babies  and  lunatics,  Archie  has  his 
good  and  bad  days.  If  low  clouds  are  about 
and  he  can  only  see  through  the  gaps  he  is 
not  very  troublesome.  Mist  also  helps  to 
keep  him  quiet.    He  breaks  out  badly  when 


242     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

the  skj^  is  a  cover  of  unbroken  blue,  though 
the  sun  sometimes  dazzles  him,  so  that  he 
fires  amok.  From  his  point  of  view  it  is  a 
perfect  day  when  a  film  of  cloud  about 
20,000  feet  above  him  screens  the  sky.  The 
high  clouds  forms  a  perfect  background  for 
anything  between  it  and  the  ground,  and  air- 
craft stand  out  boldly,  like  the  figures  on  a 
Greek  vase.  On  such  a  day  we  would  will- 
ingly change  places  with  the  gunners  below. 
For  my  part,  Archie  has  given  me  a  fellow- 
feeling  for  the  birds  of  the  air.  I  have  at 
times  tried  light-heartedly  to  shoot  part- 
ridges and  even  pigeons,  but  if  ever  again 
I  fire  at  anything  on  the  wing,  sympathy 
will  spoil  my  aim. 

France,  October,  1916 


VI. 

BATTLES   AND   BULLETS. 

I  am  not  sure  which  is  the  more 

disquieting,  to  be  under  fire  in  the  air  or  on 
the  ground. 

Although  the  airman  is  less  likely  to  be 
hit  than  the  infantryman,  he  has  to  deal 
with  complications  that  could  not  arise  on 
solid  earth.  Like  the  infantryman,  a  pilot 
may  be  killed  outright  by  a  questing  bullet, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it.  But  in  the  case 
of  a  wound  he  has  a  far  worse  time.  If  an 
infantryman  be  plugged  he  knows  he  has 
probably  received  "a  Blighty  one,"  and  as 
he  is  taken  to  the  dressing-station  he  dreams 
of  spending  next  week-end  in  England.  A 
wounded  pilot  dare  think  of  nothing  but  to 
get  back  to  safety  with  his  machine,  and  pos- 
sibly an  observer. 

He  may  lose  blood  and  be  attacked  by  a 
paralysing  faintness.  He  must  then  make  his 
unwilling  body  continue  to  carry  out  the 
commands   of   his   unwilling  brain,  for  if  he 

?4? 


244     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

gives  way  to  unconsciousness  the  machine, 
freed  from  reasoned  control,  will  perform 
circus  tricks  and  twist  itself  into  a  spinning 
nose-dive.  Even  when  he  has  brought  the 
bus  to  friendly  country  he  must  keep  clear- 
headed; otherwise  he  will  be  unable  to  exer- 
cise the  judgment  necessary  for  landing. 

Another  unpleasant  thought  is  that  though 
he  himself  escape  unhurt,  an  incendiary  bul- 
let may  set  his  petrol  tank  ablaze,  or  some 
stray  shots  may  cut  his  most  vital  control 
wires.  And  a  headlong  dive  under  these 
conditions  is  rather  too  exciting,  even  for  the 
most  confirmed  seeker  after  sensation. 

Yet  with  all  these  extra  possibilities  of 
what  a  bullet  may  mean,  the  chances  of 
being  plugged  in  the  air  are  decidedly  less 
than  on  the  ground.  While  travelling  at 
anything  from  70  to  140  miles  an  hour  it 
is  decidedly  more  difficult  to  hit  another 
object  tearing  along  at  a  like  speed  and 
swerving  m  all  directions,  than  from  a 
machine-gun  emplacement  to  rake  a  line  of 
men  advancing  "over  the  top."  Another 
point  favourable  to  the  airman  is  that  he 
scarcely  realises  the  presence  of  bullets  around 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  245 

him,  for  the  roar  of  his  engine  drowns  that 
sinister  hiss  which  makes  a  man  automati- 
cally close  his  eyes  and  duck. 

Given  a  certain  temperament  and  a  cer- 
tain mood,  an  air  fight  is  the  greatest  form 
of  sport  on  earth.  Every  atom  of  person- 
ality, mental  and  physical,  is  conscripted  into 
the  task.  The  brain  must  be  instinctive  with 
insight  into  the  enemy's  moves,  and  with 
plans  to  check  and  outwit  him.  The  eye 
must  cover  every  direction  and  co-operate 
with  the  brain  in  perfect  judgments  of  time 
and  distance.  Hands,  fingers,  and  feet  must 
be  instantaneous  in  seizing  an  opportunity  to 
swoop  and  fire,  swerve  and  avoid,  retire  and 
return. 

In  an  isolated  fight  between  two  single 
machines  the  primary  aim  of  each  pilot  is 
to  attack  by  surprise  at  close  quarters.  If 
this  be  impossible,  he  plays  for  position  and 
tries  to  get  above  his  opponent.  He  opens 
fire  first  if  he  can,  as  this  may  disconcert 
the  enemy,  but  he  must  be  careful  not  to 
waste  ammunition  at  long  range.  A  machine 
with  little  ammunition  is  at  a  tremendous 
disadvantage  against  a  machine  with  plenty. 


246     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

If  an  isolated  British  aeroplane  sees  a 
formation  of  Germans  crossing  to  our  side 
it  has  no  hesitation  in  sweeping  forward  to 
break  up  the  party.  You  will  remember 
our  old  friend  Marmaduke,  dear  lady?  Only 
last  week  he  attacked  ten  German  machines, 
chased  them  back  to  their  own  place  in  the 
air,  and  drove  two  down. 

Even  from  the  purely  selfish  point  of  view 
much  depends  on  the  area.  When  an  air- 
man destroys  a  Boche  over  German  country 
he  may  have  no  witnesses,  in  which  case  his 
report  is  attended  by  an  elusive  shadow  of 
polite  doubt.  But  if  the  deed  be  done  near 
the  trenches,  his  success  is  seen  by  plenty 
of  people  only  too  willing  to  support  his 
claim.  Sometimes  a  pilot  may  even  force  a 
damaged  Boche  machine  to  land  among  the 
British.  He  then  follows  his  captive  down, 
receives  the  surrender,  and  wonders  if  he 
deserves  the  Military  Cross  or  merely  con- 
gratulations. 

The  tactics  of  an  air  battle  on  a  larger 
scale  are  much  more  complicated  than  those 
for  single  combats.  A  pilot  must  be  pre- 
pared at  every  instant  to  change  from  the 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  247 

offensive  to  the  defensive  and  back  again, 
to  take  lightning  decisions,  and  to  extricate 
himself  from  one  part  of  the  fight  and  sweep 
away  to  another,  if  by  so  doing  he  can  save 
a  friend  or  destroy  an  enemy. 

To  help  you  realise  some  of  the  experiences 
of  an  air  battle,  my  very  dear  madam,  let 
us  suppose  you  have  changed  your  sex  and 
surroundings,  and  are  one  of  us,  flying  in 
a  bunch  over  the  back  of  the  German  front, 
seeking  whom  we  may  devour. 

A  moment  ago  the  sky  was  clear  of  every- 
thing but  those  dainty  cloud-banks  to  the 
east.  Very  suddenly  a  party  of  enemies  ap- 
pear out  of  nowhere,  and  we  rush  to  meet 
them.  Like  the  rest  of  us,  you  concentrate 
your  whole  being  on  the  part  you  must  play, 
and  tune  yourself  up  to  the  strain  attendant 
on  the  first  shock  of  encounter.  What  hap- 
pens in  the  first  few  seconds  often  decides 
the  fight. 

The  opposing  forces  close  up  and  perfect 
their  order  of  battle.  The  usual  German 
method,  during  the  past  few  weeks,  has  been 
to  fly  very  high  and  range  the  machines  one 
above  the  other.     If  the  higher  craft  are  in 


248     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

trouble  they  dive  and  join  the  others.  If 
one  of  the  lower  ones  be  surrounded  those 
above  can  swoop  down  to  its  help.  Our 
own  tactics  vary  according  to  circumstances. 

At  the  start  it  is  a  case  of  follow-my- 
leader.  The  flight-commander  selects  a  Boche 
and  dives  straight  at  him.  You  follow  until 
you  are  within  range,  then  swerve  away  and 
around,  so  as  to  attack  from  the  side.  Then, 
with  a  clear  field,  you  pour  in  a  raking  fire 
by  short  bursts — ta-ta-ta-ta,  ta-ta-ta-ta-ta,  ta- 
ta-ta-ta>  aiming  to  hit  the  Boche  pilot  and 
allowing  for  deflection.  From  all  directions 
you  hear  the  rattle  of  other  guns,  muffled  by 
the  louder  noise  of  the  engine. 

A  third  British  machine  is  under  the 
Boche's  tail,  and  the  observer  in  it  is  firing 
upwards.  The  three  of  you  draw  nearer 
and  nearer  to  your  prey.  The  Hun  puts 
his  nose  down  to  sweep  away;  but  it  is  too 
late.  His  petrol  tank  bursts  into  flames, 
and  the  machine  dives  steeply,  a  streamer 
of  flame  running  away  behind  it.  The  fire 
spreads  to  the  fuselage  and  planes.  After 
rushing  earthwards  for  two  or  three  thou- 
sand feet,  the  whole  aeroplane  crumbles  up 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  249 

and  you  see  the  main  portion  falling  like  a 
stone.  And  you  (who  have  shed  the  skin 
of  sentiment  and  calm  restraint  and  become 
for  the  duration  of  the  fight  a  bold  bad  pilot 
with  the  lust  of  battle  in  your  blood)  are 
filled  with  joy. 

Meanwhile,  your  observer's  gun  has  been 
grinding  away  behind  you,  showing  that  you 
in  your  turn  are  attacked.  You  twist  the 
machine  round.  Almost  instinctively  your 
feet  push  the  rudder-control  just  sufficiently 
to  let  you  aim  dead  at  the  nearest  enemy. 
You  press  the  trigger.  Two  shots  are  fired, 
and — your  gun  jambs. 

You  bank  and  turn  sideways,  so  as  to  let 
your  observer  get  in  some  shooting  while 
you  examine  your  gun.  From  the  position 
of  the  check-lever  you  realise  that  there 
has  been  a  missfire.  Quickly  but  calmly — 
feverish  haste  might  make  a  temporary 
stoppage  chronic — you  lean  over  and  remedy 
the  fault.  Again  you  press  the  trigger,  and 
never  was  sound  more  welcome  than  the 
ia-ta-ta-ta-ta  which  shows  you  are  ready  for 
all  comers. 

Once  more  you  turn  to  meet  the  attacking 


250     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

Germans.  As  you  do  so  your  observer  points 
to  a  black-crossed  bird  which  is  gliding  down 
after  he  has  crippled  it.  But  three  more  are 
closing  round  you.  Something  sings  loudly  a 
yard  away.  You  turn  your  head  and  see  that 
a  landing  wire  has  been  shot  through;  and 
you  thank  the  gods  that  it  was  not  a  flying 
wire. 

The  flight-commander  and  another  com- 
panion have  just  arrived  to  help  you.  They 
dash  at  a  Boche,  and  evidently  some  of  their 
shots  reach  him,  for  he  also  separates  him- 
self and  glides  down.  The  two  other  Huns, 
finding  themselves  outnumbered,  retire. 

All  this  while  the  two  rear  machines  have 
been  having  a  bad  time.  They  were  sur- 
rounded by  five  enemies  at  the  very  be- 
ginning of  the  fight.  One  of  the  Boches 
has  since  disappeared,  but  the  other  four 
are  very  much  there. 

You  sweep  round  and  go  to  the  rescue, 
accompanied  by  the  flight-commander  and 
the  remaining  British  machine.  Just  as  you 
arrive  old  X's  bus  drops  forward  and  down, 
spinning  as  it  goes.  It  falls  slowly  at  first, 
but  seems   to   gather  momentum;   the   spin 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  251 

becomes  wilder  and  wilder,  the  drop  faster 
and  faster. 

"Poor  old  X,"  you  think,  "how  damnable 
to  lose  him.  Now  the  poor  beggar  won't 
get  the  leave  he  has  been  talking  about  for 
the  last  two  months."  Then  your  thoughts 
turn  to  Y,  the  observer  in  the  lost  machine. 
You  know  his  fiancee,  you  remember  he  owes 
you  30  francs  from  last  night's  game  of 
bridge. 

You  burn  to  avenge  poor  X  and  Y,  but  all 
the  Huns  have  dived  and  are  now  too  low 
for  pursuit.  You  recover  your  place  in  the 
formation  and  the  fight  ends  as  suddenly 
as  it  began.  One  German  machine  has  beer-, 
destroyed  and  two  driven  down,  but — "one  of 
ours  has  failed  to  return." 

When  you  return  and  land,  you  are  not 
so  contented  as  usual  to  be  back.  There  will 
be  two  vacant  places  at  dinner,  and  there 
is  a  nasty  job  to  be  done.  You  will  have  to 
write  rather  a  painful  letter  to  Y's  fiancee. 

Madam,  you  are  now  at  liberty  to  give  up 
the  temporary  role  of  a  bold,  bad  pilot  and 
become  once  more  your  charming  self. 

France,  November,  1916 


VII. 

BACK   IN   BLIGHTY. 

You  last  heard  of  my  continued 

existence,  I  believe,  from  a  field  post-card 
with  but  one  of  the  printed  lines  uncrossed: 
"I  have  been  admitted  to  hospital."  When 
this  was  sent  I  had  no  more  expectation  of 
a  return  to  Blighty  than  has  a  rich  Bishop 
of  not  entering  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 
Nevertheless,  here  we  are  again,  after  a 
three  days*  tour  along  the  Red  Cross  lines 
of  communication. 

Again  I  have  been  admitted  to  hospital. 
This  one  is  more  sumptuous  but  less  satis- 
fying than  the  casualty  clearing  station  at 
Gezaincourt,  whence  the  card  was  posted. 
There,  in  a  small  chateau  converted  into  an 
R.A.M.C.  half-way  house,  one  was  not  over- 
anxious to  be  up  and  about,  for  that  would 
have  meant  a  further  dose  of  war  at  close 
quarters.  Here,  in  a  huge  military  hospital 
at  Westminster,  one  is  very  anxious  to  be 
up  and  about,  for  that  would  mean  a  long- 

252 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  253 

delayed  taste  of  the  joys  of  London.  At 
Gezaincourt  rumbling  gunfire  punctuated  the 
countryside  stillness;  aeroplanes  hummed  past 
on  their  way  to  the  lines,  and  engendered 
gratitude  for  a  respite  from  encounters  with 
Archie;  from  the  ward  window  I  could  see 
the  star-shells  as  they  streaked  up  through 
the  dim  night.  At  Westminster  rumbling 
buses  punctuate  the  back-street  stillness; 
taxis  hum  past  on  their  way  to  the  West 
End,  and  engender  a  longing  for  renewed 
acquaintance  with  the  normal  world  and  the 
normal  devil;  from  the  ward  window  I  can 
see  the  towers  of  Parliament  as  they  stretch 
up  through  the  London  greyness.  For  an 
Englishman  just  returned  from  a  foreign 
battlefield  to  his  own  capital  it  should  be  an 
inspiring  view,  that  of  the  Home  of  Gov- 
ernment, wherein  the  Snowdens,  Outhwaites, 
Ponsonbys,  and  Sir  Vested  Interests,  talk  their 
hardest  for  the  winning  of  the  war  by  one 
side  or  the  other,  I  am  not  sure  which.  But 
somehow  it  isn't. 

I  have  mentioned  the  hospital's  position, 
because  it  will  help  you  on  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, if  the  herewith  forecast  is  correct. 


254      CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

You  will  read  this  letter,  hang  me  for  my 
customary  disturbing  suddenness,  and  search 
a  time-table.  This  will  tell  you  that  a  train 
from  your  part  of  the  country  arrives  in  town 
at  11.45  a.m.  (e),  which  bracketed  letter 
means  Saturdays  excepted.  By  it  you  will 
travel  on  Tuesday  morning.  Then,  in  the 
afternoon,  you  will  seek  a  taxi,  but  either 
the  drivers  will  have  as  fares  middle-aged 
contractors,  good  for  a  fat  tip,  or  they  will 
claim  a  lack  of  petrol,  lady.  You  will  there- 
fore fight  for  place  in  a  bus,  which  must  be 
left  at  the  corner  of  Whitehall  and  Queen 
Victoria  Street.  Next  you  will  walk  towards 
the  river,  past  Westminster  Abbey  and  the 
Houses  of  Talk,  and  so  to  Chelsea  Embank- 
ment. Turn  off  by  the  Tate  Gallery,  enter 
the  large  building  on  your  right,  and  you 
will  have  arrived.  Visiting  hours  are  from 
two  to  four,  but  as  the  Sister  is  one  of  the 
best  and  my  very  kind  friend,  you  will  not 
be  turned  out  until  five. 

But  I  can  hear  you  ask  leading  questions. 
No,  I  am  not  badly  wounded  nor  seriously 
ill.  Neither  am  I  suffering  from  shell-shock, 
nor  even  from  cold  feet.     A  Blighty  injury 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  U5 

of  the  cushiest  is  the  spring  actuating  this 
Jack-in-the-Box  appearance.  Have  patience. 
To-day's  inactivity  has  bred  a  pleasant  bore- 
dom, which  I  shall  work  off  by  writing  you  a 
history  of  the  reasons  why  I  am  back  from 
the  big  war.  They  include  a  Hun  aeroplane, 
a  crash,  a  lobster,  and  two  doctors. 

You  will  remember  how,  months  ago,  our 
machine  landed  on  an  abandoned  trench, 
after  being  damaged  in  a  scrap?  A  bullet 
through  the  petrol-pipe  having  put  the  car- 
burettor out  of  action,  the  engine  ceased  its 
revs.,  so  that  we  glided  several  miles,  crossed 
the  then  lines  at  a  low  height,  and  touched 
earth  among  the  network  of  last  June's  lines. 
We  pancaked  on  to  the  far  edge  of  a  trench, 
and  the  wheels  slid  backward  into  the  cav- 
ity, causing  the  lower  wings  and  fuselage  to 
be  crumpled  and  broken. 

My  left  knee,  which  has  always  been  weak 
since  a  far-back  accident,  was  jerked  by 
contact  with  the  parapet.  Next  day  it 
seemed  none  the  worse,  so  I  did  not  take  the 
accident  seriously.  During  the  weeks  and 
months  that  followed  the  knee  was  painless, 
but  it  grew  larger  and  larger    for  no  noticea- 


256     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

ble  reason,  like  Alice  in  Wonderland  and  the 
daily  cost  of  the  war. 

Then  an  aggressive  lobster,  eaten  in  Amiens 
one  fine  evening,  revenged  itself  by  making 
necessary  a  visit  to  the  casualty  clearing  sta- 
tion for  attention  to  a  mildly  poisoned  tummy. 
The  doctor  who  examined  me  noticed  the 
swollen  knee,  and  looked  grave.  He  pinched, 
punched,  and  pressed  it,  and  finally  said: 
"My  dear  boy,  why  the  devil  didn't  you  re- 
port this?  It's  aggravated  synovitis,  and,  if 
you  don't  want  permanent  water-on-the-knee, 
you'll  have  to  lie  up  for  at  least  three  weeks. 
I'll  have  you  sent  to  the  Base  to-morrow." 

My  ambition  did  not  yet  soar  beyond  a 
short  rest  at  the  Base.  Meanwhile  it  was 
pleasant  to  lie  between  real  sheets  and  to 
watch  real  English  girls  making  beds,  taking 
temperatures,  and  looking  after  the  newly 
wounded  with  a  blend  of  tenderness  and 
masterful  competence.  Their  worst  job  ap- 
peared to  be  fighting  the  Somme  mud.  The 
casualties  from  the  trench  region  were  in- 
variably caked  with  dirt  until  the  nurses  had 
bathed  and  cleaned  them  with  comic  tact 
and  great  success. 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  257 

It  being  the  day  of  an  advance,  scores  of 
cases  were  sent  to  Gezaincourt  from  the  field 
dressing  stations.  Each  time  an  ambulance 
car,  loaded  with  broken  and  nerve-shattered 
men,  stopped  by  the  hospital  entrance,  a 
young  donkey  brayed  joyously  from  a  field 
facing  the  doorway,  as  if  to  shout  "Never 
say  die!"  Most  of  the  casualties  echoed  the 
sentiment,  for  they  seemed  full  of  beans  and 
congratulated  themselves  and  each  other  on 
their  luck  in  getting  Blighty  ones. 

But  it  was  otherwise  with  the  cases  of 
shell-shock.  I  can  imagine  no  more  wretched 
state  of  mind  than  that  of  a  man  whose 
nerves  have  just  been  unbalanced  by  close 
shaves  from  gun  fire.  There  was  in  the  same 
lysol-scented  ward  as  myself  a  New  Zealander 
in  this  condition.  While  he  talked  with  a 
friend  a  shell  had  burst  within  a  few  yards 
of  the  pair,  wounding  him  in  the  thigh  and 
sweeping  off  the  friend's  head.  He  lost  much 
blood  and  became  a  mental  wreck.  All  day 
and  all  night  he  tossed  about  in  his  bed, 
miserably  sleepless  and  acutely  on  edge,  or 
lay  in  a  vacant  and  despondent  quiet.  Noth- 
ing interested  him,  nothing  comforted  him — 


<258     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

not  even  a  promise  from  the  doctor  of  a  long 
rest  in  England. 

There  were  also  many  victims  of  the  pre- 
vailing epidemics  of  trench-fever  and  rabid 
influenza.  The  clearing  station  was  thus 
hard  put  to  it  to  make  room  for  all  new- 
comers by  means  of  evacuation.  For  our 
batch  this  happened  next  evening.  A  long 
train  drew  up  on  the  single-line  railway  near 
the  hospital,  the  stretcher  cases  were  borne 
to  special  Pullman  cars,  and  the  walking 
cases  followed,  each  docketed  in  his  button- 
hole by  a  card  descriptive  of  wound  or  ail- 
ment. 

You  can  have  no  idea  of  the  comfort  of 
a  modern  R.A.M.C.  train  as  used  at  the 
Front.  During  the  first  few  months  of  war, 
when  the  small  amount  of  available  rolling 
stock  was  worth  its  weight  in  man-power, 
the  general  travel  accommodation  for  the 
wounded  was  the  French  railway  truck,  with 
straw  strewn  over  the  floor.  In  these  the 
suffering  sick  were  jolted,  jerked,  and  halted 
for  hours  at  a  time,  while  the  scorching  sun 
danced  through  the  van's  open  sides  and 
the  mosquito-flies  bit  their  damnedest.     But 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  259 

nowadays  one  travels  in  luxury  and  sleeping- 
berths,  with  ever-ready  nurses  eager  to  wait 
upon  every  whim. 

A  sling-armed  Canadian  was  one  of  the 
party  of  four  in  our  compartment.  Great 
was  his  joy  when  a  conjuring  trick  of  coin- 
cidence revealed  that  the  jolly  sister  who 
came  to  ask  what  we  would  like  to  drink 
proved  to  be  not  only  a  Canadian,  but  ac- 
tually from  his  own  little  township  in  Mani- 
toba. While  they  discussed  mutual  friends 
the  rest  of  us  felt  highly  disappointed  that 
we  also  were  not  from  the  township.  As 
evidence  that  they  both  were  of  the  right 
stuff,  neither  of  them  platitudinised:  "It's  a 
small  world,  isn't  it?" 

The  smooth-running  train  sped  northward 
from  the  Somme  battlefield,  and  we  betted 
on  each  man's  chances  of  being  sent  to 
Blighty.  Before  settling  down  to  sleep,  we 
likewise  had  a  sweepstake  on  the  Base  of 
destination,  for  not  until  arrival  were  we 
told  whether  it  was  Rouen,  Boulogne,  or 
Etaples.  I  drew  Boulogne  and  won,  as  we 
discovered  on  being  awoken  at  early  dawn 
by  a  nurse,  who  arrived  with  tea,  a  cheery 


260     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

"Morning,  boys,"  and  bread-and-butter  thin 
as  ever  was  poised  between  your  slim  fingers. 

The  wounded  and  shell-shocked  New  Zea- 
lander  had  pegged  out  during  the  journey. 
May  the  gods  rest  his  troubled  spirit! 

From  Boulogne  station  a  fleet  of  ambu- 
lance cars  distributed  the  train's  freight  of 
casualties  among  the  various  general  hos- 
pitals. At  three  of  the  starry  morning  I 
found  myself  inside  a  large  one-time  hotel 
on  the  sea  front,  being  introduced  to  a  bed 
by  a  deft-handed  nurse  of  unusual  beauty. 

The  Blighty  hopes  of  our  party  were  re- 
alised or  disappointed  at  midday,  when  the 
surgeon-in-charge  came  to  decide  which  of 
the  new  arrivals  were  to  be  forwarded  across 
Channel,  and  which  were  to  be  patched  up 
in  France.  The  world  stands  still  the  mo- 
ment before  the  Ram  Corps  major,  his  ex- 
amination concluded,  delivers  the  blessed 
verdict:  "Get  him  off  by  this  afternoon's 
boat,  sister."  Or  an  unwelcome  reassurance: 
"We'll  soon  get  you  right  here." 

For  my  part  I  had  not  the  least  expecta- 
tion of  Blighty  until  the  surgeon  showed  signs 
of  prolonged  dissatisfaction  with  the  swollen 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  261 

knee.  Like  the  doctor  at  Gezaincourt,  he 
pinched,  punched,  and  pressed  it,  asked  for 
its  history,  and  finally  pronounced:  "I'm 
afraid  it'll  have  to  be  rested  for  about  six 
weeks."  Then,  after  a  pause:  "Sorry  we 
haven't  room  to  keep  you  here  for  so  long. 
You'll  be  fixed  up  on  the  other  side."  Hast- 
ily I  remarked  that  I  should  be  sorry  indeed 
to  take  up  valuable  space  at  a  Base  hospital. 
The  major's  departure  from  the  ward  was 
the  signal  for  a  demonstration  by  the  Blighty 
squad.  Pillows  and  congratulations  were 
thrown  about,  war-dances  were  performed 
on  game  legs,  the  sister  was  bombarded  with 
inquiries  about  the  next  boat. 

All  places  on  the  afternoon  boat  having 
been  booked,  we  were  obliged  to  wait  until 
the  morning.  What  a  day!  The  last  of  a 
long  period  amid  the  myriad  ennuies  of  ac- 
tive service,  the  herald  of  a  long  spell  amid 
the  pleasant  things  of  England.  Impatience 
for  the  morrow  was  kept  bottled  with  diffi- 
culty; every  now  and  then  the  cork  flew 
out,  resulting  in  a  wild  rag  among  those 
able  to  run,  walk,  or  hop.  When  the  'Times' 
was  delivered,  it  seemed  quite  a  minor  mat- 


262     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

ter  that  the  Gazette  should  notify  me  that 
I  had  been  presented  with  another  pip. 

After  dinner  some  one  remarked  that  "she" 
would  soon  come  on  duty,  and  there  was  an 
air  of  conscious  expectancy  among  the  vet- 
erans of  the  ward.  "She,"  the  V.A.D.  girl 
who  had  received  us  when  we  were  deposited 
at  the  hospital  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning,  was — and  is — an  efficient  nurse,  a 
good  comrade,  a  beautiful  woman,  and  the 
friend  of  every  casualty  lucky  enough  to  have 
been  in  her  charge.  For  a  wounded  officer 
staled  by  the  brutalities  of  trench  life  there 
could  be  no  better  mental  tonic  than  the 
ministrations  and  charm  of  Our  Lady  of  X 
Ward.  I  cannot  guess  the  number  and  va- 
riety of  proposals  made  to  her  by  patients  of 
a  week's  or  a  month's  standing,  but  both 
must  be  large  She  is  also  the  possessor  of 
this  admirable  and  remarkable  record.  For 
two  years  she  has  been  nursing — really  nurs- 
ing— in  France,  and  yet,  though  she  belongs 
to  a  well-known  family,  her  photograph  has 
never  appeared  in  the  illustrated  papers  that 
boom  war-work  patriots.  On  this  particular 
evening,  in  the  intervals  of  handing  round 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  263 

medicines  and  cheerfulness,  our  comrade  the 
night  nurse  made  toffee  for  us  over  a  gas- 
burner,  a  grey -haired  colonel  and  a  baby  sub- 
altern taking  turns  to  stir  the  saucepan. 

The  next  change  of  scene  was  to  the  quays 
of  Boulogne.  Ambulance  cars  from  the  sev- 
eral hospitals  lined  up  before  a  ship  side- 
marked  by  giant  Red  Crosses.  The  stretcher 
casualties  were  carried  up  the  gangway,  down 
the  stairs,  and  into  the  boat's  wards  below. 
The  remainder  were  made  comfortable  on 
deck.  Distribution  of  life-saving  contrap- 
tions, business  with  medical  cards,  gleeful 
hoots  from  the  funnel,  chug-chug  from  the 
paddles,  and  hey  for  Blighty!  across  a  smooth 
lake  of  a  sea.  Yarns  of  attack  and  bombard- 
ment were  interrupted  by  the  pleasurable  dis- 
covery that  Dover's  cliffs  were  still  white. 

We  seemed  an  unkempt  crowd  indeed  by 
contrast  with  dwellers  on  this  side  of  the 
Channel.  The  ragged  raiment  of  men  pipped 
during  a  Somme  advance  did  not  harmonise 
with  plush  first-class  compartments  of  the 
Chatham  and  Dover  railway.  Every  uni- 
form in  our  carriage,  except  mine  and  another, 
was  muddied  and  bloodied,  so  that  I  felt  al- 


2G4     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

most  ashamed  of  the  comparative  cleanliness 
allowed  by  life  in  an  R.F.C.  camp,  miles  be- 
hind the  lines.  The  subaltern  opposite,  how- 
ever, was  immaculate  as  the  fashion-plate  of 
a  Sackville  Street  tailor.  Yet,  we  thought,  he 
must  have  seen  some  tough  times,  for  he 
knew  all  about  each  phase  of  the  Somme 
operations.  Beaumont  Hamel?  He  explained 
exactly  how  the  Blankshires  and  Dashshires, 
behind  a  dense  barrage,  converged  up  the 
high  ground  fronting  the  stronghold.  Stuff 
Redoubt?  He  gave  us  a  complete  account 
of  its  capture,  loss,  and  recapture.  But  this 
seasoned  warrior  quietened  after  the  visit  of 
an  official  who  listed  us  with  particulars  of 
wounds,  units,  and  service.  His  service  over- 
seas? Five  months  in  the  Claims  Depart- 
ment at  Am  iens.    Wound  or  sickness?  Scabies. 

Charing  Cross,  gateway  of  the  beloved  city ! 
The  solid  old  clock  looked  down  benignly  as 
if  to  say:  "I  am  the  first  landmark  of  your 
own  London  to  greet  you.  Pass  along  through 
that  archway  and  greet  the  others." 

But  we  could  not  pass  along.  The  medical 
watchdogs  and  mesdemoiselles  the  ambulance- 
drivers  saw  to  that.     We  were  detailed  to 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  SOMME  265 

cars  and  forwarded  to  the  various  destina- 
tions, some  to  the  provinces  by  way  of  an- 
other station,  some  to  suburban  hospitals, 
some  to  London  proper.  I  was  one  of  the 
lucky  last-named  and  soon  found  myself  set- 
tled in  Westminster.  Here  the  injured  knee 
was  again  pinched,  punched,  and  pressed, 
after  which  the  ward  surgeon  told  me  I 
should  probably  stay  in  bed  for  a  month. 
For  exercise  I  shall  be  permitted  to  walk 
along  the  passage  each  morning  to  the  de- 
partment where  they  dispense  massage  and 
ionisation. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  midday  and  flying  weather. 
Over  there  a  formation  of  A  flight,  Umpty 
Squadron,  will  perhaps  be  droning  back  from 
a  hundred-mile  reconnaissance.  V.,  my  mad 
friend  and  sane  pilot  and  flight-commander, 
leads  it;  and  in  my  place,  alas!  Charlie-the- 
good-guide  is  making  notes  from  the  ob- 
server's cockpit.  The  Tripehound  and  others 
of  the  jolly  company  man  the  rear  buses, 
which  number  four  or  five,  according  to 
whether  the  wicked  bandit  Missing  has  kid- 
napped some  member  of  the  family.  And 
here  loaf  I,  uncertain  whether  I  am  glad  or 


266     CAVALRY  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

sorry  to  be  out  of  it.  The  devil  of  it  is  that, 
unlike  most  of  my  bed-neighbours,  I  feel 
enormously  fit  and  am  anxious  to  shake  hands 
with  life  and  London.  Time  hangs  heavy  and 
long,  so  bring  all  you  can  in  the  way  of  the 
latest  books,  the  latest  scandals,  and  your 
latest  enthusiasms  among  the  modern  poets. 
Above  all,  bring  yourself. 

London,  November,  1916 


THE  CODNTBY  UZZ  PRESS,  GAlDEN  CITY.  NSW  YOBF 


REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  161  464     3 


